


Til Death Do Us Part

by duplicity



Series: Til Death Do Us Part [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Voldemort Wins, Angst and Tragedy, Bittersweet Ending, Death, Depression, Emotional Roller Coaster, Horcrux Creation, Immortality, Kidnapping, M/M, Morality, Philosophy, Politics, Prophecy, Sane Voldemort (Harry Potter), Self-Sacrifice, Slow Burn, Stockholm Syndrome, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-02-25 03:47:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 35
Words: 117,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22009465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duplicity/pseuds/duplicity
Summary: When Harry becomes the Dark Lord’s prisoner, his only solace is in the fact that his eventual death will set Wizarding Britain free.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Series: Til Death Do Us Part [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1751161
Comments: 796
Kudos: 867





	1. Prophecy

**Author's Note:**

> please note that in this AU, there was no rebirth ritual, so voldemort maintains the physical appearance of his adult self, fixed at about 40 years of age or what have you. harry is 27 years old.
> 
> this will be a DARK story, and things will get a lot worse before they get even marginally better. if you can get past the first 10 chapters or so, things will improve from there.
> 
> the only promise i will make for this story is that the ending will be bittersweet and not utterly tragic/depressing.
> 
> it's a ship tag because the nature of their relationship will change as such, but this isn't a romance-focused story, so check that Bittersweet Ending tag out and keep it in mind! i don't want people to be disappointed by the ending.
> 
> enjoy the story!

_The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches…_

_born when the seventh month died, the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal…_

_he will defy the Dark Lord thrice, and he will become the Dark Lord’s greatest challenger…_

_he will live while the Dark Lord reigns, and the Dark Lord will rule as long as he survives…_

* * *

Tom Riddle had never put much stock into prophecy during his time at Hogwarts. There was too much risk of self-fulfillment in letting others dictate the path of your life, and he’d sworn to himself that he would never fall for such tricks.

He had built his own empire from nothing—he had needed no Seer to tell him he would succeed. He had known it from the moment he'd learned he was a wizard.

So when Sybil Trelawney’s words had fallen across his desk, he’d been inclined to dismiss them immediately.

What he had failed to consider, however, was the fact that his followers were not as pragmatic as he was, and were therefore more prone to bouts of extremely poor judgement.

A decade and a half later, he would be reminded of this particular failure in a most spectacular fashion.

  
  


* * *

Bellatrix and Rodolphus were among Voldemort’s most devoted followers. A majority of their skills lay in spellcasting; they were a powerful pair of talented duelists. However, they possessed a particular inclination for excessive violence that even Voldemort found distasteful. So when they had requested an audience with him, their giddy expressions had only given Voldemort an overwhelming sense of dread.

“My Lord,” crooned Bellatrix. Her robes were not only partially stained with blood, but also shredded to the point of indecency. Not that Bellatrix had ever cared to be particularly modest in his presence, but the sight of it was irritating all the same.

Rodolphus bowed low. He was a decent sycophant. If he could only do a better job at keeping his impulsive wife in check, then he would have had more value. As it was, the two of them were a poor influence on each other.

The Lestranges had brought a body with them; it was laid out on the floor. A man of average height and build, with all his limbs tied up and a sack draped over his head.

“Yes?” Voldemort demanded impatiently.

Bellatrix leaned forward, breathless, her eyes gleaming. “My Lord, we have brought you a _gift_.”

Voldemort eyed the body, speculative. “I can see that,” he said evenly, still waiting for them to get to the point.

Rodolphus seemed to register the imminent danger he was in, because he bent down to wrench the body up off of the floor, using the rope draped around its neck as leverage. “We have found the subject of the prophecy for you, my Lord.”

It took a split second for Voldemort to recall just what the prophecy _was_ , and then Bellatrix was pulling the cloth off of the head of their latest prisoner, revealing a head of dark hair and a heavily bruised face.

“It’s Potter,” Rodolphus said nervously, when Lord Voldemort continued to remain silent. “He fits all aspects of the prophecy, my Lord. We had discovered in the Ministry records that he was born at the end of July.”

“I know who he is,” Voldemort snapped, and Rodolphus dropped his gaze to the floor.

Voldemort eyed his newest prisoner. Potter was a thorn in his side. An excellent duelist with a talent for evading capture; Potter had faced him not once, but three times.

The Order of the Phoenix called Potter 'The Man-Who-Lived'. They believed he was the one named in the prophecy, and it was frequently cited in their circles that while Voldemort reigned, Potter could not die. A good deal of the rebels looked up to Potter, because not only was he the very definition of a fearless leader, but he was also the one who had taught them how to fight.

Voldemort could admit the boy had talent; it would not have been a very easy task for the Lestranges to take him alive.

Even now, he could hear Potter’s strained, uneven breathing. It was likely that one or more of the boy’s ribs were broken. He would have fought to the last, foolish as he was.

“My Lord?” Bellatrix simpered.

Voldemort did not know how long he had been standing there, lost in introspection. It was only at the sound of Bellatrix’s pitched, girlish voice that he finally thought to become angry.

Potter could have died. Potter could have _died_ , and this death could have brought about the downfall of all that he had worked for simply because his followers were too idiotic to understand self-fulfilling prophecies.

His yew wand snapped into his hand.

Rodolphus flinched, which was amusing, but it was, unfortunately, not amusing enough to spare him from what was coming.

“Did you even _think_ ,” Voldemort began, drawing out the pauses between words for emphasis, ”just for one infinitesimal moment, that by capturing Potter you might as well have declared him to be the thrice-damned subject of prophecy yourselves? Do you think that I, Lord Voldemort, who has commanded magic to the extent of which no one has ever seen, would have failed to notice Potter as a threat?”

He did not wait for either of them to answer before he cast: “ _Crucio_.”

Rodolphus started screaming, though he tried to clench his jaw shut to muffle the sound. His legs gave out beneath him after some time; he buckled to the floor, shaking violently. Voldemort waited patiently, watching with interest as the man’s face went from an ugly flush of red and purple to almost deathly pale, and then he released the curse spell.

Next to her husband, Bellatrix was quiet, her large eyes were wide. Voldemort did not doubt that this had all been her idea; she was too eager to please, and that clouded her decision-making to a ridiculous degree. She shifted as Rodolphus groaned quietly. She was waiting for her turn.

Voldemort did not want to give her the satisfaction of being touched by his magic. The bloody infatuated witch would probably see it as an honour.

“Get up,” he said to Rodolphus. “ _Now_.”

Rodolphus rose, his legs unsteady beneath him. There was a tremor rolling across his shoulders, and his left arm was twitching uncontrollably. He turned, with reluctance, to face his lord.

“Draw your wand.”

Rodolphus hesitated, then withdrew his wand from his robes using his right hand.

“You will cast the Cruciatus on your wife until I tell you to stop.”

That ought to be a suitable punishment for Bellatrix, who usually loathed her husband when she wasn’t bossing him around. And perhaps it would give Rodolphus some much needed spine, so he could derail his wife’s hare-brained ideas in the future.

Bellatrix did not scream. Perhaps she was too proud. More likely, she had developed a pain tolerance high enough to withstand the strength of Cruciatus that Rodolphus could cast.

As she writhed on the floor, Voldemort averted his eyes to the left wall, so as to avoid having to look at her. Then, when he felt it had gone on long enough, he raised his hand, and Rodolphus stopped.

“Leave,” said Voldemort. He no longer felt like torturing them.

Though Rodolphus was sweating and shaking profusely, he picked up his wife and shuffled towards the door.

“Wait,” croaked Bellatrix. “I h-have his wand, my Lord.”

Voldemort summoned it with a lazy twitch of his wand. The wand floated towards him. Dark, polished holly.

The door shut as Rodolphus succeeded in his hasty retreat.

Plucking the holly wand out of the air, Voldemort set it upon his desk. He would deal with it later—he still had a body lying upon the floor of his office, after all.

Said body was beginning to stir in its sleep. Voldemort cast a few basic diagnostic spells. Cracked and broken ribs, as expected. Heavy bruising and multiple lacerations across the torso. A particularly deep gash on the leg that had been hastily patched by an inexperienced healer.

Voldemort set about healing Potter up. He was not about to take any chances with what his moronic Death Eaters had done. They had been under strict orders to never touch Potter with anything harder than a stunner. Only Bellatrix would have been so bold as to defy him openly, thinking that she knew better.

Once his spellwork was done, Voldemort cast the Stunning Spell, just to be safe.

Potter lay slumped across the carpet, dried blood leaking from his nose and mouth. His round-framed glasses were still attached to his face, likely due to a Sticking Charm, but one of the lenses was cracked down the middle. The boy’s riotous mess of hair was matted with sweat and plastered to his forehead, covering the scar that existed underneath. The scar that had remained since the very first time Potter had fought him.

Realizing that he was still standing before Potter’s prone form, Voldemort sat down at his desk to think further on what to do.

Potter was a strange adversary to have. He never cast to kill—only to Stun or otherwise incapacitate. If Potter had been less scrupulous with his morals he might have presented a larger issue, but as things were now, the main danger Potter posed lay in his potential to fulfill the terms of the prophecy.

Voldemort believed that the kidnapping of Potter would only serve to worsen the likelihood that Potter was the challenger prophesied to destroy all that he, Lord Voldemort, had worked so hard to achieve. His reign over Wizarding Britain had held strong for over three decades, and he was not about to surrender it to a charlatan's tale. Lord Voldemort was in control of his own destiny; he would ensure it.

Voldemort gazed down at Potter for the second time. There was nothing to be done about this now. Releasing Potter would only invite further chaos to his doorstep. The best course of action would be to keep everything relatively simple in the hopes that it would avoid triggering the prophecy further.

Potter would remain a prisoner of the Dark Lord until his dying day—a day that would never, ever come so long as Voldemort watched over him. Death had not stopped Voldemort from claiming his rightful place at the helm of Wizarding Britain. Voldemort was forever young and forever immortal—Death could not touch him. Potter was merely another step to conquer, another irritation to crush. Voldemort would ensure that the Man-Who-Lived firmly met with the concept of his given title.

Potter would continue to live.

Decision now made, Voldemort stood. He would have to prepare a room for Potter to be kept in; it would not do for such a task to be assigned to any of his Death Eaters. This he would do himself, and then he would charge his followers with strict instructions for keeping the boy in line. Potter could not be allowed to escape the life he was now being given.

With a sweep of his wand, Voldemort levitated the unconscious body and made his way out of his office. There were a number of rooms in the manor that could be suitable, but perhaps it would be best not to tempt fate by placing the boy too close. A room in the left wing, then.

Voldemort continued down the corridor, which was thankfully empty. He momentarily considered casting a Disillusionment Charm upon Potter’s body, then discarded the idea. Potter's capture would become common knowledge soon enough, and so it would be best if the Death Eaters saw that Potter was to be specifically kept alive. To kill the Dark Lord’s prey was to invite pain of the highest degree. That was something all of his Death Eaters knew very well.

By the time Voldemort reached the left wing, he had still failed to run into anyone. Perhaps his followers had heard the news of Bellatrix and Rodolphus’ predicament, and had then wisely chosen to make themselves scarce. It was all for the better, really. He was in no mood to see any of them now, and even torturing them for their failures would eventually prove tiresome.

Looking down at Potter, Voldemort saw that the blasted fool was in the middle of stirring again. Did Potter ever know when to stop resisting? This was for his own good.

Voldemort set Potter down upon the ground, stunned him, and then levitated him back into the air. Then they proceeded down one of the staircases that led to where the temporary cells existed. He was careful not to bash Potter against the walls of the stairwell or the steps of the staircase. The last thing he needed was for Potter to suffer a fatal head injury on the way to indefinite imprisonment.

The air was colder on this level—a damp chill that was meant to unsettle those left here to rot. Light flared to life on either side of the corridor as Voldemort brought Potter along, walking him past many of the currently unoccupied cells. He already had decided on the perfect place to store Potter in.

They reached the end of the hall, where a large, oaken door was built into an archway. As his wand was occupied, Voldemort merely waved his hand before the door, which melted away to reveal a dark room.

Potter was floated into it, and then there was the soft sound of the body being deposited upon the floor.

“ _Lumos_.”

The room lit up. Many years ago, this had been Voldemort’s favourite room to bring his prisoners to. The torture implements on the walls, the blood stains he’d left behind to frighten the room’s future occupants. Yet somehow, over the course of his reign, he’d found himself using this place less and less.

The rebels still existed, yes, but they were fewer than before and more clever to boot. Voldemort found himself more occupied by the logistics of running the Ministry than with fighting off the Order of Phoenix. The Order had put their faith into a saviour, into Potter, the lot of them desperately hoping that Potter would someday save them with his death so that they would not have to so much as lift a finger.

Voldemort wondered if the war was to continue on for another decade, would the Order have considered killing Potter purely to try and complete the prophecy’s requirements.

A thought for another time, perhaps. With distaste, Voldemort surveyed the dark, dusty room they were in. This entire place was long overdue for a change.

Lifting his wand once more, Voldemort set to work.

All of the constructs in the room were vanished into non-existence, the walls and floors were wiped clean and polished to a shine, and the air was hit with multiple Freshening Charms. Satisfied that the room was now safe for human habitation, Voldemort set about creating a light source. It wouldn’t do to leave anything lying around that Potter could use to escape, or—worse yet—use to kill himself, which meant the usual lamps and candles were out of the question.

After a minute’s work, there was a globe of pure light hovering high above them that illuminated the entirety of the large room.

Checking on Potter revealed that the boy was still unconscious. His breathing had eased since Voldemort had healed his ribs, and his face would have been peaceful save for the bruises and blood that still covered it.

Voldemort cast _Stupefy_ again, for it was perfectly fine to be redundant in this case, and then resumed looking around at the room. Another wave of his wand was used to summon materials from the floor above them, and Voldemort began to pace the newly-cleaned floor while he waited for his things to arrive.

It was difficult for Voldemort to put himself in the mindset of keeping his prisoner alive and healthy rather than suffering and in extreme pain. He had to make sure every angle was covered so that there was no chance of the prophecy coming true. Potter would have to live under his roof for the foreseeable future, if not forever.

In the worse case scenario, Potter would have to be drugged into submission. Voldemort did not particularly prefer that option, as it would involve a lot of direct care that he neither had the time personally nor the competent followers to handle.

No, what would be best was if Potter would simply acquiesce to a nice, quiet life in captivity.

Voldemort grimaced. Knowing what he did about Potter, this was about as likely to happen as was Bellatrix deciding she was _not_ madly in love with her Lord.

The materials he’d summoned had now floated into the room. Voldemort eyed the suspended blankets and the piles of linen. He’d have to send out a House-Elf to purchase replacements for the household.

Voldemort directed the sheets of fabric to cover the walls and floor, and then began his Transfiguration. It took a great deal of concentration—the material had to not only attach itself to the walls, but also thicken and expand. Partway through the process, he had to roll Potter’s body over so he could finish working on the floor. Voldemort would also need to cast additional Sticking Charms, as well as spells to make the fabric indestructible to human hands.

In short order, the Transfiguration was complete. He was the world’s most powerful sorcerer. For him, the amount of magic required to remodel the room was minimal.

Looking over at the gap where the entrance was, Voldemort called the door back. It materialized into existence, and then the door, too, was covered in thick, cushioned fabric.

The padded cell was now finished.

Voldemort chanced a glance down and saw that, yes, Potter was once again starting to struggle to wakefulness. It was as though Potter had practiced specifically for waking up after being stunned.

This time, however, Voldemort was not about to send the boy back into the land of unconsciousness. Voldemort cast a few charms to signal an alarm if Potter’s health changed or dropped below a certain level, and then he stepped out of the room and resealed the door, willing it closed with his magic.

He would have to return eventually, likely to key someone else into the room so that the Potter boy could be fed and given water, but for now it would have to do.

There would be time later to think on how to deal with Potter being awake.


	2. Prisoner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry knew the only reason he’d survived any of those encounters was pure luck. That, and the fact that the prophecy was protecting him. He would die when he was supposed to; no sooner, no later. He could only hope that it would come soon, so that Wizarding Britain could at last be free.

Harry woke to a dry, burning throat. Every inch of his body ached, though he noted through his fog of exhaustion that there was no immediate, horrific sensation of pain. 

He was alive.

This thought did not bring relief—such was his state of disarray.

It took long minutes before Harry felt enough like himself to try and open his eyes.

The act of opening his eyelids the merest crack was enough to send him spiraling back towards a wish for unconsciousness. Whatever lay on the other side of his closed eyes was brilliantly white, which meant that it hurt to look at.

Retreating into himself, Harry forced his consciousness to expand along other axises—the senses of smell and touch. Inhaling slowly, he tried to decipher his environment.

It smelled very clean. Fresh, like the Hospital Wing at Hogwarts, or one of the beds at St. Mungo’s. Someone had taken Cleaning Charms to this place; more than once, actually, if the smell was anything to go by.

Harry’s leg twitched, a phantom feeling crawling along his calf, and he was instantly reminded that he was not allowed to relax. Because he’d been in the middle of duel only moments… moments earlier.

Forcing his eyes open, Harry blinked into the brightness surrounding him.

The first thing he registered was that he was in a room with no door. Years of survival in war-torn Wizarding Britain had nailed this instinct into him—to find and map the exits wherever he was.

As he sat up his muscles protested, but Harry focused on the room he was in. It appeared that he was in one of those psychiatric hospital rooms, one with the cushions all over the walls and floor. This realization was jarring to his already distorted sense of existence, and so he rubbed his hand across the floor, just to make sure it was real and he wasn’t imagining it. The fabric was soft to the touch; it certainly felt realistic beneath his palm and fingertips.

Harry had the terrible, fleeting thought that his entire life up until this point had just been a horrid nightmare.

He quickly banished that idea, firmly telling himself that this was… this was just another one of Voldemort’s mind games. Because they were at war.

Though he felt dizzy and weak, Harry crawled over to one of the walls, using the tiny gaps between the cushions to prop himself up as he painstakingly pulled himself to his feet. His right leg was still tingling, and when he looked down at it, he saw a thick line of pink scar tissue that stretched down the right side of the calf.

Reaching down, Harry prodded gently at it with an index finger. The area was sensitive, but it was properly healed, unlike the quick hack job he’d done to himself during the fight.

The fight. Harry drew his hand back to feel at his ribcage. His ribs were also fine, though there was a familiar tightness and stiffness that signified recently mended bones.

Now suspicious, Harry took another look around the room. There was a glowing orb high above him that was half-pushed into the ceiling. But other than that, there was nothing else here. Wherever he was.

Harry allowed himself to sit back down upon the floor, which was disturbingly comfortable for a prison cell. Because this was a prison cell, he had no doubt about that. Bellatrix must have caught him and taken him back to her master. This was only to be expected, Harry thought glumly. He had known, for many years now, that Voldemort might someday come for him.

As the possible subject of prophecy, his lifespan would be limited. It had only been a question of when and where he would have to die. Ever since his first encounter with Voldemort at the age of seventeen, Harry had prepared for the inevitability of capture.

Harry had been marked. Voldemort had cast the _Avada Kedavra_ directly at him, and—instead of causing death—it had left Harry with a strange lightning bolt etched upon his forehead. The rune that represented sun and strength. A symbol of the new era they all had hoped to see.

On that day, Harry had lost both his parents and been given a heavy burden to bear.

Since then, he’d only ever faced Voldemort on his own twice, and each time he’d felt overwhelmingly inadequate. He was a good duelist and a decent fighter, but Voldemort was powerful and insanely talented—Voldemort could cast spells faster than the eye could see, and shields shattered under his concentrated effort like frail glass.

Harry knew the only reason he’d survived any of those encounters was pure luck. That, and the fact that the prophecy was protecting him. Harry would die when he was supposed to; no sooner, no later. He could only hope that it would come soon, so that Wizarding Britain could at last be free.

For decades, Wizarding Britain had laboured under the tyrant rule of Lord Voldemort, and Harry was the Order’s last hope at a free country, one where Muggles and Muggleborns would once again be accepted as part of their society.

Harry took a deep breath, trying to stretch his lungs out after their long period of near-dormancy. He was still a bit dizzy, and his throat was starting to hurt. But his head had cleared enough for him to notice that one of the lenses in his glasses was cracked. Harry reached up to pull them off, only to be met with the blunt reminder that he had magically stuck his glasses to his face before he’d gone to fight the Lestranges.

Cursing his own ingenuity, Harry rubbed at his forehead for a moment. Then he checked his pockets, which were empty. That was expected. He’d given his Cloak to Ron and Hermione, and the Lestranges would have taken his wand and his weapons away before dumping him into this cell.

Slumping backwards, Harry resigned himself to some unknown hours of mindless boredom until someone was sent to either feed him or torture him, trying to enjoy what little comfort he got from the cushioned wall he was leaning against.

* * *

It was hours later when Voldemort finally found the time to return to Potter’s room. He had Narcissa Malfoy and one of the Malfoy’s House-Elves with him as they made their way down the corridor that led to the padded cell.

“The boy is not to leave the room,” he told Narcissa. “I have placed charms on the room to detect his state of well-being, but you are to exercise your own judgement as to his health and general wellness. I will expect regular reports to be compiled, and for you to alert me immediately if something should change.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

Narcissa was the perfect balance to her sister. Composed, obedient, dignified. Truthfully, Voldemort preferred her to Lucius, who thought too highly of himself to be truly tolerable. Narcissa was sensible enough to keep Potter alive without engaging in the unnecessary dramatics of her fellow Death Eaters.

The House-Elf at Narcissa’s side was carrying a tray of bread and water. There was no reason for Voldemort to be generous, even with keeping Potter healthy, until he figured out how to extract information from Potter.

Legilimency was an option, but to use it might damage Potter’s mind beyond repair. Dumbledore would have taught his precious saviour Occlumency, and Voldemort had no doubt that within hours of Potter’s capture, the Order of the Phoenix would have moved their main safehouses to new locations.

A few days on mere rations wouldn’t kill Potter. And while Potter was safe from the extremes of physical harm, the Cruciatus could serve to loosen his tongue. If that was to fail, there were still other ways to force him to talk.

Voldemort stood to the side of the archway as he keyed Narcissa and her elf into the room’s wards. Should Potter attempt an escape, he would be quickly detained.

Then, with his wand still touching the wall, Voldemort re-materialized the entrance to the cell, careful to keep himself out of view.

Narcissa blinked once, adjusting to the sight, then entered the room, elf following close behind. Her wand was in her hand as she passed through the doorway. “Get up, Potter,” she said. “It is time to eat.”

There was a pause. Voldemort heard the sound of the tray being deposited on the floor, and then—

“I can’t eat this.” Potter’s voice, dull and flat. Curiously devoid of his typical antagonism.

“You will,” Narcissa said, “even if I have to order Dobby to shove it down your throat. Accept your fate, Potter. The Dark Lord wants you kept alive. To resist is pure lunacy. You have been spared where many others have not—”

“No,” Potter interrupted, still weary. “I really can’t eat this. I have a gluten allergy.”

“You—” Narcissa began, and then stopped. “Drink the water,” she snapped.

Voldemort heard Potter pick up the paper cup of water and drain it.

Silence fell.

“I shall return shortly,” Narcissa finally said. “If you possess any sense at all, you will do nothing else until then.”

Narcissa withdrew from the room hesitantly, the elf moving with her, and then, as the wall replaced itself, she turned her eyes to Voldemort.

“Find something else to feed him,” he told her.

She curtsied deeply in response, and Voldemort left her there to handle it.

Deciding to return to his office, Voldemort glanced about to see if anyone was nearby, then rubbed lightly at his temples. Having to deal with Potter on top of everything else he needed to manage on a daily basis was not ideal.

There were too few followers that Voldemort trusted to do things correctly. Narcissa was one, though she possessed no great magical talent to supplement her sensibility. Barty Crouch Jr. was another, but what he had in common sense he was often lacking in restraint. There were also those who were competent but lazy, and were therefore only motivated by personal gain. Or when Voldemort was actively there to threaten them into compliance.

When Voldemort finally arrived at his office, there was a thin stack of papers waiting for him on his desk.

Moving swiftly towards them, Voldemort levitated the papers with a flick of his hand, passing each page of parchment quickly before his gaze. Nothing that needed his direct attention, nothing that could not wait until morning.

A quick look at the clock on the wall told him it was now nearly five AM.

Morning.

Voldemort allowed himself a low groan of frustration. Perhaps it had been a mistake to fill his higher ranks with Pureblooded followers. They were too used to the lifestyle that their luxurious inheritances afforded them; their heirship had made them arrogant and foolhardy.

The proper values could only be built from having to claw your way up the ranks. Resilience and work ethic. To begin in the Slytherin house as a member of a wealthy family with a noble name was a privilege that too many did not appreciate.

Severus was someone who had come from nothing, someone who had fought all his life for a place at the table. It was a shame that Severus’ role as spy meant that his actions would always have a shadow of doubt lurking over them. For as much as Voldemort was assured of Severus' loyalty, he would have been foolish to think he owned the man completely. A true Slytherin looked to his own interests first—to play both sides was to place bets on both outcomes.

Moving to sit in his chair, Voldemort pondered what to do next. Potter could not stay under Narcissa’s care forever, pragmatic and useful though she was. The only proper long-term solution was for Potter to remain under Voldemort’s watchful gaze, so he could be assured that no threat would come from the prophecy designed to ruin his governance. For that to happen, Potter needed to be subdued somehow. His spirit needed to be broken, and he needed to accept that his life was now property of the Dark Lord.

However, there remained one unfulfilled element of the prophecy aside from Potter’s potential death—Potter had yet to become Voldemort’s greatest challenger.

That title still belonged to Albus Dumbledore.

There was no way to know exactly what Potter would have to do to surpass Dumbledore in being Voldemort’s greatest adversary, but so as long as Potter remained prisoner here, bound and stifled in captivity, he could never grow to adequately challenge Voldemort as an equal.

However, the Order also knew this, and therefore they would take steps to retrieve their little hero from the Dark Lord’s clutches.

Perhaps that could prove useful. If Voldemort could capture enough of Potter’s friends, he could torture and kill them until Potter agreed to be complacent. Potter was certainly selfless enough to agree to such a deal; heroes usually were.

This new idea was appealing. Breaking Potter into docility was by far a more interesting task than the endless tedium of managing his Death Eaters and Wizarding Britain. Even Dumbledore had grown predictable lately, constantly trying to smuggle Muggleborns out of the country to safety, always trying to disrupt Death Eater patrols in sparsely populated areas. What had begun as war on equal footing had quickly dissolved into guerilla tactics. The Order had to choose their targets carefully—they worked under the cover of nightfall, either behind closed doors, or literally underground, in some cases.

The last time Voldemort had seen Potter had been amongst the ruins of Godric’s Hollow. The once proud wizarding community laid host to dark ashes and crumbled structures. It was fitting that their third encounter had been Potter’s birthplace. If Potter genuinely was the subject of the prophecy, then his foreseen death had been sealed by fate’s hands at the same place where he’d been brought to life. There was a strange beauty to how Potter’s life had been prophesied as a full circle.

Voldemort shook himself abruptly from that train of thought. He could not think too hard on Potter being his destined challenger. Tempting fate was a mistake Voldemort would not make. He planned to treat Potter as he would any other danger to be avoided, and he would never think of Potter as his equal in any way. As long as Potter had yet to complete all the terms required to defeat him, Voldemort was safe.

Besides, Potter would be his soon enough. No will remained unbroken under Voldemort’s hand, and Potter was not an exception to this. Once an accord was reached, Potter could stay under magical lock and key for the rest of his life, a life that Voldemort would assure lasted just as long as his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments are appreciated :)


	3. Hospitality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bringing Narcissa’s report to eye level, Voldemort began to read. Her writing was concise and to the point, unlike others. According to her, Potter was behaving, though he continued to make requests for things that Narcissa was reluctant to give him. It seemed Potter was fairly smart after all, if he was thinking of how to use the prophecy to his advantage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw suicidal thoughts, cruciatus torture applies for this chapter, oof

Harry was bored. Though Narcissa had brought him some water, that had been an indeterminate period of time ago. Nothing had happened since then. As a prisoner of Voldemort, he’d expected things to be more… exciting. Not that he wanted to be tortured or interrogated or anything, but sitting around in his white padded cell was more somehow more alarming.

Shifting his weight, Harry stood up and began to pace the room, just to have something to do. His stomach was starting to churn, and the right lens of his glasses was still cracked. Narcissa ought to come back with food at some point, but Harry couldn’t tell how long it had been since she’d left—he was too disoriented to feel the passing of time properly.

Trying to rouse himself, Harry tried to remember all the possible scenarios he’d anticipated upon his capture. Torture had been one of them, though he was unsure how far Voldemort would be willing to go, lest Harry accidentally die and prematurely end Voldemort’s reign of terror. Interrogation was another, as Harry had always been adequate at best in regards to shielding his mind from invasion, but the Order knew he had been captured, and so they would hopefully take steps to minimize the impact of any information Harry would be forced to give up under duress.

Harry was also prepared for the inevitability of simply being kept here forever. Albus had said that Voldemort was immortal, that Voldemort had taken steps to create objects called Horcruxes to ensure his governance of Wizarding Britain remained permanent. For as long as Voldemort was alive, he would only grow more skilled and powerful, and eventually there would be no hope of defeating him.

If Harry was to remain prisoner forever, then he had but one task left: to die.

Whenever, however; it had to be done. Harry could not live under Voldemort’s compulsory mercy at the cost of so many other lives. He would have to find a way to get his hands on something that could be used to kill himself.

That thought, while depressing, filled Harry with a peculiarly strong sense of conviction. Albus had prepared him for this—Harry had been prepared to walk into Death’s arms for nearly ten years now. To the next great adventure, as Albus often put it. To see his parents again, to know that he’d made them proud.

Harry had evaded Death since the age of seventeen, but he was now ready to submit if it meant safety for his remaining friends and family. He would die, then Voldemort’s reign would end. That was what Trelawney had prophesied all those years ago, and that was what would happen.

Even if he wasn’t really Voldemort’s equal, the worst that could happen was Harry’s suicide attempt would fail, and then he would simply have to try again at a later date. It had to happen eventually, and it was this promise of release that reassured Harry that his capture had not been a complete failure on his part.

So if Narcissa never returned with food, perhaps that was for the best, though Harry seriously doubted he would be permitted to perish here in this room while Voldemort wanted him alive.

Looking around the room, Harry wished that the House-Elf had left the tray and the cup of water behind, because at least then there would have been something to look at other than the sterile walls.

Rubbing his hand against one of the cushions, Harry was irritated to note that even his bloodied knuckles failed to make marks upon the fabric. Clearly, this room had been designed to mentally torment whoever was in it.

Harry decided that his pacing was only serving to make him more restless, and so he went to sit down again. He positioned himself in one of the corners opposite the side of the wall where the entrance had appeared. Aside from having his back safely against the wall, there was really no benefit to the position. The room looked the same no matter which corner he sat in.

Scowling, Harry closed his eyes. Sleeping wasn’t in the cards, but he could at least ignore the room if he had his eyes shut.

* * *

Some time later, Narcissa Malfoy reappeared in the doorway. She had the House-Elf with her again. The tray that the elf was carrying now contained a bowl of tomato soup.

“Excellent,” Harry said, leaning forwards with interest. “Let’s have it.”

Narcissa eyed him disdainfully, but snapped her fingers at the elf, who tottered a few steps and placed the tray at Harry’s feet.

Harry picked the tray up and set it carefully on his lap. A quick touch to the side of the bowl revealed that the soup was lukewarm at best. Well, that was fine. Food was food. Though he’d been trying to ignore the hunger pangs, Harry was relieved to have something to eat.

Picking up the plastic spoon he’d been given, Harry looked back up at Narcissa.

“You will eat quickly,” Narcissa said. She had not moved an inch since she’d entered the room.

Resigning himself to his audience, Harry started to eat. The soup was actually rather good, though perhaps that was simply his hunger making itself known. Harry finished the bowl in short order, lifting it to his mouth so he could suck down the final dregs of liquid. Once done, he licked his lips, watching as the elf retrieved the tray and bowl.

“Can I get some more water?” he asked.

Narcissa hesitated, then withdrew her wand. She gestured for the bowl, which the House-Elf held up to her, and then she filled it with water.

The elf brought the bowl back over to Harry, who drank it without complaint. Though it tasted mildly of the soup, it was still water, and he didn’t know when he’d get a chance for more.

As the elf took the bowl back, Harry tried to think of what else he could ask for.

“What if I need to use the bathroom?” he asked.

Narcissa’s smooth, porcelain features scrunched into an expression of distaste. “Pick a corner, Potter.”

Harry decided to use her obvious disgust to his advantage. “Then you’d have to come in here to see it,” he told her.

Her face contorted again. Harry wondered what it would take to get her to snap. “Dobby,” she snapped. “You will respond to Potter’s call. You will only vanish whatever mess he makes, you will not talk to him, and you will do nothing other than what I have instructed you to do.”

“Yes, Mistress,” Dobby said, nodding his head. “Dobby will do as Mistress asks.”

Narcissa turned to regard Harry once more, staring down the length of her pointed nose at him. “The Dark Lord will come for you soon, Potter. Don’t think your soft treatment will last.”

And then she retreated backwards through the hole in the wall, which re-materialized shortly after, leaving Harry alone once more.

* * *

The rest of the week passed quickly. So quickly, in fact, that by the time Narcissa’s report landed on Voldemort’s desk, it came as a surprise. After an entire hour of sorting through the rest of the papers on his desk, each of them more boring and mundane than the last, he was highly interested in seeing what Narcissa had to say about their newest prisoner.

Voldemort picked up the parchment containing Narcissa’s elegant calligraphy. The woman prided herself on her art, one of the many hobbies Pureblood housewives practiced. It was a waste that Voldemort had quickly attempted to correct—yanking these women from their often loveless marriages and putting them into positions of power. He had used this tactic to convince many young noblewomen to join his cause during his days at Hogwarts. Combined with his natural charm and handsome appearance, it made for a winsome proposal.

Bellatrix was another example of his success, albeit one he had mixed feelings about. She was powerful and talented, but madder than anyone else under his command. Voldemort despaired of the day when she finally worked up the insanity to try and act on her attraction to him.

Bringing Narcissa’s report to eye level, Voldemort began to read. Her writing was concise and to the point, unlike others. According to her, Potter was behaving, though he continued to make requests for things that Narcissa was reluctant to give him. It seemed Potter was fairly intelligent after all, if he was thinking of how to use the prophecy to his advantage. This was both surprising and intriguing coming from Potter, as it was more a Slytherin tactic than a Gryffindor one. 

Perhaps it would be prudent to at last visit Potter himself, to ascertain exactly what kind of prisoner he would be dealing with moving forwards. Ssince the paperwork of today was finally done, he now had some time to spare. He could make a quick detour to the basement level to question Potter for a while.

Dropping the report back onto his desk, Voldemort swept out of the room, the door automatically shutting behind him. It only took a few minutes to navigate across the manor and down the steps to the prison cells.

Pressing the tip of his wand against the wall at the end of the hall, Voldemort summoned the entrance.

He was greeted with the sight of Potter pacing the room. Narcissa had provided the boy with a change of clothes; he was now wearing a plain pair of tan trousers and a loose grey shirt. Potter stopped pacing and looked up as Voldemort entered his cell.

“Potter,” Voldemort said, keeping his wand aimed in Potter’s direction. “I trust you’ve been enjoying my hospitality.”

Potter continued to eye him warily, visibly apprehensive at being addressed so politely. His face, still bruised, was starting to heal over. The yellows and purples were all blending together in a medley of colour. And the lens of his glasses had been repaired, Voldemort noted.

“I felt that we should hold a civil conversation together,” Voldemort continued. “Just to see how… amenable you are to our current situation.”

“You mean the situation in which you hold me here against my will for the rest of my natural life?” Potter asked, raising a brow as he did so. Such an exaggerated expression must have aggravated his facial wounds, but the boy didn’t so much as flinch as he stared the Dark Lord down.

“Now, Potter, it doesn’t have to be that way. I would be perfectly pleased if you were to decide to stay here of your own volition.”

“As if.” Potter scoffed, crossing his arms in defiance. “If you’re here to torture information out of me, then you might as well get started. If you accidentally kill me in the process, all the better, right?”

Voldemort had to admire the gall. He lowered his wand slightly and took a step closer. “There are ways of torture that would leave you alive, boy. Do not make the mistake of thinking that the prophecy shields you from me,” he said cooly. “If I wanted you in pain, if I wanted you to suffer, then you would be.”

“How generous.”

“It would be easier for us both if you were to submit to the life I have to offer you,” Voldemort said. “You could live here, enjoying the finer things life has to offer. No more war, no more pain. I could even be convinced to spare a few of your friends, if you chose to side with me.”

“Right,” Potter said. “So I guess the rest of Wizarding Britain can go hang itself, is that it?”

Voldemort shrugged artfully. “Wizarding Britain has little to offer you. I can shield you and your chosen friends from harm, if you would only agree to remain held under my command.”

“It’s not about just that. It’s about doing the right thing. About fighting for it.” Potter shook his head, as if he thought Voldemort wouldn’t understand what he was trying to say. “As long as there are people out there who know that what you’re doing is _wrong_ , then you will never win, prophecy or not.”

“I think, boy, that you put too much faith into your _morals_ and your _ideals_. You forget that it all means nothing when the blame of death and bloodshed lies at your feet.”

“Twenty-seven,” said Potter.

Voldemort blinked. Then, when Potter remained silent, he grudgingly spat out, “What is that supposed to mean, Potter?”

“It means,” Potter said slowly, “that I’m twenty-seven years old. I’m not a boy. It would be pretty pathetic if you’d failed to kill a teenager three times, wouldn’t it?”

“ _Crucio._ ” The spell was reflexive at this point. Voldemort’s rage poured down his wand arm and directly into the Potter boy—man—child, whatever.

Potter fell to his knees, teeth gritted as he swallowed his scream down. The attempt at bravado did not last long, however, as Potter eventually began to cry out, his body tipping into the wall as the violent tremors of pain wracked him. Voldemort held the spell longer than he should have, mostly because he was irritated at Potter’s mocking words.

When Voldemort at last released the spell, Potter lay panting and shivering upon the floor. He must have bitten his tongue at some point, because there was blood leaking across the stark white cushions laid out beneath him.

“As you can see,” Voldemort began coldly. “There was ways of torture that do not involve your death. I would encourage you to make room for this fact in your admittedly minuscule brain, lest you find yourself in this unfortunate situation a second time.”

Potter laughed weakly, rolling onto his back. The chuckle he emitted sounded more like a dying cough than anything else. Then Potter wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing the blood that was there, and sat up. The motion of it was slow, but the fact that he’d achieved any movement at all signified a ridiculous level of pain tolerance.

“Are we done here?” asked Potter, after his breathing had regulated itself enough to allow speech.

Voldemort stood there, eyes narrowed at Potter, unsure where to go from here. Another bout of Cruciatus, perhaps? Potter was annoyingly obstinate for a prisoner, and it would be fun to finally break him.

“We are not done until I say so,” Voldemort snapped.

Potter coughed weakly, splattering a bit of blood onto his clean shirt. “If you say so,” Potter croaked. “Somehow I don’t think the Cruciatus is conducive to a long, healthy life for me. But maybe I’m just a boy, and I don’t know any better.”

Voldemort cast the Cruciatus again, only because Potter was trying to tell him not to do it. But his will was not as strong as it had been previously, and this time he had to end the spell after only a few seconds.

Potter was now curled on his side, his arms wrapped around his ribcage as he gasped for air. If Voldemort had not known better, he would have said that Potter was a glutton for pain, as Potter was clearly making no effort to avoid being on the receiving end of Voldemort’s wand. But no, Potter was simply a smart-mouthed bastard who would soon learn his place.

If Voldemort really couldn’t torture Potter with the Cruciatus repeatedly, he would have to get more creative. Perhaps watching some of his friends being tortured would make Potter more agreeable.

On the floor by Voldemort’s feet, Potter was still wheezing pitifully. Voldemort debated leaving him there like that, because it was what the idiotic fool deserved, but the idea of Potter dying somehow was an urgent, heavy weight in the back of his mind.

Aiming his wand at Potter for the third time, Voldemort cast a basic healing spell. That ought to have sealed up the damage to Potter’s tongue and stilled some of the lingering tremours from the Cruciatus Curse.

Then he left before Potter could sit up and do something else stupid like try to thank him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not trying to drop hints that voldy respects harry a little bit but... he might respect harry just a little bit.


	4. Stagnation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry spent a lot of time in his cell sleeping or daydreaming. Thoughts of his friends kept him sane. He wondered how Ron and Hermione were doing, if they were missing him too much, or if they were desperately trying to look for him. He hoped that they weren’t—he didn’t want them getting hurt or killed on his behalf. But his friends were stubborn, so perhaps they were planning a rescue attempt right at this very moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for harry not being in a great mental place for most of this chapter :/ send that boy some hugs :/
> 
> also happy birthday to tom, although really he isn't in this chapter that much 🤧

Harry hadn’t ever thought that being held under Crucio could be fun. And he was right, because it definitely hadn’t been fun, but getting on Voldemort’s nerves had been fun all the way up until Harry had been hit by the Unforgivable, so that had to count for something.

It was as though the knowledge that Voldemort couldn’t kill him had unlocked some kind of door in his brain, one that let all of his most stereotypical Gryffindor traits run free. Mostly the tendency towards reckless heroics, but also a good deal of courage as well, because Harry didn’t think he would have had the gall to mock Voldemort to his face otherwise.

If Harry was going to die at some point anyways, he figured he might as well piss Voldemort off as many times as possible before then.

Rolling onto his back, Harry tried to ignore the aching, throbbing muscles that told him this was, in fact, a truly terrible idea that he should abandon immediately. He would be fine eventually. He just needed to ignore the pain a while longer, and it would fade away.

Returning to his previous train of thought—it had been strange for Harry to see Voldemort up close after so many years of fighting him. Voldemort had been mere steps away from Harry during the entire Cruciatus ordeal, which was the shortest distance that had ever existed between them. Even during duels and on the battlefield, Harry had never gotten a decent look at Voldemort’s face.

Sure, there were photographs in articles and propaganda posters plastered all over public places like Diagon Alley, but seeing those images was not the same as looking directly at Voldemort’s face, knowing that this was the man responsible for the deaths of his parents. Seeing Voldemort in person stoked a new, different kind of rage in Harry. He was not going to die peacefully; he was going to make Voldemort’s life as insanely difficult as possible before he finally kicked the bucket.

Voldemort had risen to power with his charming words, handsome looks, and inclination towards powerful dark magic. Harry would defeat him with resilience, determination, and the love he felt for his friends. As long as the possibility of protecting his friends existed, Harry would cling to that thought like a lifeline. He could withstand any torture if he kept that thought close to him.

Albus had said that Voldemort did not have the capacity to love, to understand the power that came from being willing to make sacrifices for others. Voldemort was single-minded, selfish, and egotistical, and Harry would use all these things to his advantage.

If Harry worked hard enough at the task of needling Voldemort endlessly, maybe he could get Voldemort to do the deed of killing Harry himself. Then Harry wouldn’t have to work on finding a way to die. He would get Voldemort to do it for him, and the prophecy would be fulfilled that way.

This new plan sounded more plausible than Harry waiting around for an opportunity to toss himself out a window, even if it was probably going to be a lot more painful.

Although, Harry told himself, you couldn’t kill someone using _only_ the Cruciatus Curse. So even if Voldemort did continue to apply it, eventually Harry was bound to reach some level of pain tolerance. If Voldemort still continued to cast it after _that,_ then he would risk driving Harry insane, just like Bellatrix had done with Neville’s parents.

Harry thought about the possible consequences of that. It would probably be a lot harder to keep Harry alive if he was catatonic, so it was likely something to be avoided. Patients in magical stasis suffered from shorter lifespans; that was something Harry did remember from his forced Potions lessons with Snape. Something about how keeping an unresponsive body alive would drain your magic faster, thus reducing your lifespan from that of a magical being to that of a mundane (or Muggle) one.

Speaking of Snape, Harry wondered if Snape would ever be allowed to come by to see him. Harry knew that Snape wouldn’t try to break him out—there had been long discussions over what to do in the event of Harry’s capture, and said discussions had featured the one and only time Harry had ever found himself in agreement with Snape.

If Harry was to be captured, the Order was to leave him in Voldemort’s clutches. It was madness to risk people’s lives on what would essentially be a suicide mission. Voldemort’s manor was too protected from intruders; any attempts to enter would be met with inevitable death.

Even Snape, high ranking though he was, was not permitted within the manor. It was an honour reserved for only a select few Death Eaters. Bellatrix was one of them, Harry knew, because she had been heard boasting about it to her cohorts during battle. Though why Voldemort would want someone like Bellatrix to be able to access his private quarters, Harry had no idea.

Stretching his limbs out, Harry rolled his tongue around in his mouth. Voldemort had healed it. Harry thought that was excessive, but he supposed that Voldemort was too paranoid to leave anything to chance.

How long it would be until Voldemort returned to try again? Voldemort didn’t strike Harry as a particularly patient person, and Harry’s blatant disrespect would probably rankle for a while yet. Harry suspected he would receive another visit not too far in the future.

However, there was nothing to do until then except wait.

* * *

The following day, Voldemort questioned his lieutenants to see if there were any recent, suitable prisoners who could be used against Potter. Unfortunately, the answer was no. Voldemort set them with the task of capturing someone Potter would care about, then returned to his public office at the Ministry to get some work done.

Nagini was there, curled into a large figure eight on the rug by the fireplace. She lifted her head when he entered, her tongue flickering in greeting.

Voldemort nodded back and moved to his desk. Then he paused, looking back over at Nagini. She was his faithful familiar and his Horcrux; she had been so for decades. Seeing her reminded him of this fact.

Horcruxes were indestructible vessels, according to his extensive research. This he knew to be true from personal experience, as well. Albus Dumbledore had once tried to kill Nagini, only to fail in the attempt.

Therefore, the new, obvious solution to his problem was to turn Potter into his Horcrux.

Potter would not only become immune to Death, but he would also become an anchor of Voldemort’s immortality. A mocking salute in the direction of those hands of fate that had tried to control him, Lord Voldemort. He would twist the prophecy to his own uses, which was only fitting for someone of his power and intelligence. Following the Horcrux ritual, Voldemort would also be able to torture Potter as much as he pleased without fear of killing him accidentally.

Voldemort crooked his finger at Nagini, who slithered towards him. He stroked his index finger across her head and partially down her body. There was comfort in having a piece of his soul nearby, a sort of familiar warmth from her presence. It cleared his head, allowing him to think more easily.

To complete the Horcrux ritual, a new death would be required. Ideally, it would be Albus Dumbledore’s death that would service Voldemort’s cause. Dumbledore had evaded capture for decades, but the temptation of being able to use the old fool’s death to fuel his reign was an incentive to increase his efforts to find Dumbledore tenfold. Voldemort could only imagine the look on Dumbledore’s face as his death sealed Voldemort’s future as the ruler of Wizarding Britain forever.

Voldemort would eliminate both of his largest threats all at once: Dumbledore and the prophecy. It was the perfect solution, and the mere thought of this future accomplishment filled him with a sadistic glee.

With Dumbledore’s death and Potter’s immortality, the Order of the Phoenix would be finished at last.

Thus encouraged, Voldemort began to draw up new plans. A plan for the Horcrux ritual, and a plan to bring about the capture and final downfall of Albus Dumbledore. 

* * *

Harry spent weeks with no changes to his situation.

Seemingly fed up with Harry’s snark, Narcissa Malfoy had reduced her visits to a weekly basis, instead entrusting Harry’s care to her elf, Dobby. The upside of this was that Dobby was generally kind to Harry. Harry could make small requests for things like extra water, and usually he would have them granted.

But Dobby was the only interaction Harry got, and Dobby wasn’t allowed to stay or hold any conversations with him. The lack of stimulation was starting to get to Harry, who had been refused his repeated requests for books or puzzles or _something,_ anything.

To top it all off, the fact that Voldemort had not come by to torture him again was worrisome. Harry didn’t think it was a good sign that Voldemort had simply left him here to stagnate. Either he was plotting something and this silence was merely ominous, or he did truly plan to leave Harry here forever, which was… less than ideal. In the case of the latter, Harry would have to find a way to convince Dobby to bring him a weapon, or something that could be turned into a weapon, so that he could turn it on himself and finish things once and for all.

As weeks turned into well over a month, this scenario was looking more and more likely.

* * *

Harry spent a lot of time in his cell sleeping or daydreaming. Thoughts of his friends kept him sane. He wondered how Ron and Hermione were doing, if they were missing him too much, or if they were desperately trying to look for him. He hoped that they weren’t—he didn’t want them getting hurt or killed on his behalf. But his friends were stubborn, so perhaps they were planning a rescue attempt right at this very moment.

Though he’d tried to avoid doing it, Harry allowed himself to imagine situations where they succeeded, where Ron and Hermione came bursting into his cell to tell him he was free, that Hermione had found a way around the prophecy that would allow him to end Voldemort’s rule and still live.

But eventually even his impossible daydreams of freedom grew tiring. Harry had never been good at doing nothing. Being forced to lie around while the people he cared about were in danger was a form of torture all on its own.

Then, one day, long after Harry had stopped keeping count of them, Narcissa arrived at his cell to retrieve some hair.

Harry had abandoned all sense of dignity and begged her not to.

When that had failed, he tried to fight her, only to be Stunned for his efforts. Harry could only imagine what Voldemort planned to do with his Polyjuiced form, and none of it was any good. Harry wished that Narcissa had attacked him or cast Crucio on him, just so he could have felt like he’d fought back instead of simply lying there, frozen, as she pinched about a dozen hairs directly from his head.

“For what it is worth, Potter,” she said as she loomed over him, “I do think the Dark Lord would take any of your friends alive so that he could show you to each other one last time. If that brings you any comfort, they may live that much longer to see you before they die.”

Harry did not know what to think. He wasn’t sure if seeing his friends would make him feel any better. If anything, it would be worse for them to know that they all had failed, that Harry would not be dying any time soon, that he was not able to save them.

Narcissa retreated to the doorway, then unfroze him. Harry watched as the entrance closed itself up, leaving him alone once more.

Despair filled him immediately, flooding him so quickly that he felt as though he was drowning in it. Voldemort would lead the Order into a trap using his face as bait, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Harry curled himself up in a corner of the room, trying not to think about what would happen, but his imagination seemed only too eager to run wild after days of having nothing new to use as fodder.

Would Voldemort take on Harry’s appearance himself? Would he have one of his Death Eaters do it? Harry hoped that Snape had been asked to make the Polyjuice, so that at least the Order would have a chance at being forewarned.

The Order had generally been very strict when it came to questioning each other to prevent use of Polyjuice, but they would know that Harry had been captured, and would perhaps be expecting Voldemort to propose some kind of deal or trade.

Albus wouldn’t trust Voldemort, Harry thought, but that didn’t mean the Order would not be forced to agree to some terms on the off-chance that Voldemort _would_ let Harry go. Because surely they all knew that Harry had yet to become a proper challenger to Voldemort, so their best bet was to try to get him back in a way that allowed for the least amount of bloodshed.

This would be better than a rescue attempt, which would have likely resulted in unnecessary deaths. There would be negotiations between both sides, and then, inevitably, once an accord was reached, a stretch of time in which everyone waited for betrayal. But the Order had Albus and Mad-Eye, had Hermione, Ron, and the Weasley twins, so Harry figured that they would be well-prepared for any potential backfires. Harry trusted the Order with his life.

It was at this point that Harry’s thought process backtracked over itself. For a moment, he had forgotten that any hypothetical rescue was impossible. It would not be Harry who was dragged in chains before the Order; it would be some duplicate of him. The trust Harry’s friends had in him was misplaced—he was nowhere near ready to challenge Voldemort. He hadn’t even been capable of holding Voldemort’s attention long enough to concoct a suicide attempt.

Rubbing at his eyes, Harry ignored the fierce burning that was building in his throat. He would not cry. He would not cry, just in case someone came in and saw him. He refused to let Voldemort or any of his Death Eaters see his desolation. Harry still planned to fight them until his last breath, whenever that was.

Harry forced himself to sit up, inhaling raggedly as he attempted to steady himself. If Voldemort was planning some trap, he would be coming by to gloat, right? That was what villains did. What Voldemort did. Craft an evil plan and boast about it to their enemies. Harry hoped that any visit would come prior to the setting of the trap, so that Harry could perhaps strike some kind of bargain of his own with Voldemort for his friends’ lives.

Narcissa’s comment had been realistic, though painful. It was highly possible that no one would be killed until Voldemort got the opportunity to do the deed directly in front of Harry.

But if Harry could convince Voldemort to spare them, perhaps by offering his agreement to remain a docile prisoner, then it would be better than nothing. It would be better than waiting for Voldemort to use dark rituals on him to try and lengthen his lifespan, or simply growing old and senile in this stupid padded cell before he finally died, all alone. No friends or family to comfort him in his passing, only the knowledge that he had failed them all.

Staring at the wall where the entrance usually appeared, Harry clenched his hands up. He was tired and upset. He was sick of waiting around, unable to do anything. What little hope he had depended on the whims of a madman. What plans he could make were based on situations that he might never get to see.

Harry had spent his entire adult life enslaved by this prophecy, and now he was enslaved in another way that was similar, yet different. He was powerless to change his circumstances, and even the option of death was closed off to him. It was enough to drive anyone to depression. He did not want to outlive everyone he cared about by virtue of being tethered to bloody Voldemort.

With a low noise of frustration, Harry smacked his fist against the wall, which provided little to no resistance against his punch. The burning sensation was crawling up his throat and out of his mouth as he struggled to breathe around his anguish.

Desperately, Harry wondered if he could somehow snap his own neck if he contorted his body violently enough against the floor. It could work, maybe, but then they would come for him and heal him up again. They would heal him up and then put him in restraints, and Harry would lose whatever bit of freedom he had in his tiny prison.

But it could work, it could work, he could try it and even in the worst case scenario he could maybe beg to be put to sleep—though it was unlikely that Voldemort would allow Harry any kind of escape. He was sadistic enough to want Harry to suffer through every waking moment of this new nightmare.

Closing his eyes, Harry slumped back against the wall. The constant up and down of his emotions was draining him. He was so restless that he was going out of his mind. He had to be smart, he had to be careful. Letting Voldemort get to him was the worst thing that he could do. He just—he just had to be patient, to wait and see what would happen.

Some time passed, and Harry found himself drifting off. The floor and walls were too damn comfortable, and he was too tired to wake himself by pacing the room. He’d done stretches and push-ups and other types of exercises over the course of the past few weeks, but he’d always felt stupid while doing them, because it was probably pointless to keep himself in good shape when it didn’t matter much anyways.

Still, the silence of the room eventually lulled him to sleep, and when Harry opened his eyes again, much later, it was just in time to see that the entrance had reappeared in the wall.

Narcissa was standing in the doorway again, though this time she was alone.

Her gaze was calm as she looked him over. “Get up, Potter.”

It took a moment for the command to register, and then Harry scrambled to his feet.

“Hold your hands out.”

Harry did so, and then a rope shot out of Narcissa’s wand, binding his wrists together. The rope pulled tight, but not too tight. There would still be marks left on his skin later, depending on how long he was tied up for.

“I hope I don’t need to tell you what will happen if you try to escape,” she said.

Harry nodded. Of course, he didn’t really mean it, but he was eager to get out of his cell, despite the fact that leaving it probably didn’t mean anything good. It was stupid, the way his brain worked. But after weeks of nothing, even the sight of Voldemort’s creepy red eyes would be better than doing nothing and knowing nothing.

“You will be blindfolded for the duration of our journey,” Narcissa continued, her wand still aimed at his head. “You will not speak. You will not do anything other than walk.”

Part of Harry idly noted that she was talking to him as though he was her House-Elf, Dobby, but he nodded again anyways.

A ribbon shot out of Narcissa’s wand and bound itself around his head. Harry stiffened at the sensation of the cloth pulling tight around his face, then tried to calm his suddenly rapid heartbeat.

“No speaking,” she repeated, and then Harry felt her seize his left arm, looping another length of rope around it.

Then, once the new rope was secured, she gave a tug, and Harry was forced to stumble along blindly as she led him down the corridor to wherever they were going. Harry could only hope that whatever Voldemort wanted him for, it wouldn’t have anything to do with anyone else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter SHIT GOES DOOOOWN oh boy does it go down. we are headed off the rails into Bad Bad Territory :/
> 
> but happy new year everyone 😛


	5. Ritual

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Voldemort paused in his pacing, sweeping the line of his black robes aside as he did so. “On this day, Potter, you will bear witness to my greatest triumph,” he said. “For though I have conquered Wizarding Britain, have pushed the limits of magic beyond what lesser men could comprehend, _have conquered Death itself_ , there remains but one weakness left to crush.” 
> 
> It was then that Voldemort’s ruby eyes glimmered with a blistering intensity, and his final remark came out sounding strangely like a hiss: “Tonight, dear Potter, tonight I will conquer Fate.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for this chapter is violence, torture, character death (NOT harry), general creepy fuckery that you expect when voldemort decides to be evil

Wherever Narcissa had taken Harry, it had not been very far away. They had ascended some stairs, and then they had wandered a while longer down some corridors, twisting this way and that. Harry assumed that wherever they were going, it was somewhere still inside the manor.

Narcissa’s heeled boots made sharp little noises against the floor. The sound of it was pleasant, a reminder that Harry was finally free of his cell and at last somewhere new.

There was carpet beneath his feet and the feeling of cool, fresh air around him. Even though his vision was restricted, the ability to simply stretch his legs and walk in one direction for any period of time was relieving.

When they reached their destination, there was a pause in which Harry heard Narcissa rap smartly upon a door, and then there was the soft noise of the door swinging open.

Cold air touched Harry's exposed skin, and he resisted the urge to shiver.

Narcissa led him forward again. “My Lord,” she said quietly.

“Very good, Narcissa. Leave him with me.”

Harry felt robes brush against his leg. Then he realized they were Narcissa’s robes, as she must have curtsied to greet Voldemort. Her footsteps retreated back out the door, which closed and locked itself with a click.

This time, Harry was unable to repress a shudder as the chilly air sunk into his skin. He was bound and blind, standing in an unknown room at Voldemort’s mercy. Every instinct he had was telling him to run, to flee. Yet he could not, because there was nowhere to go.

There was a muffled noise from some paces ahead. It sounded like someone had been gagged.

“ _Silencio_.”

Silence resumed for a brief second, and then Harry heard Voldemort pace slowly towards him.

“Harry Potter,” said Voldemort, his voice caressing the syllables of Harry’s name with an unwanted familiarity. “The Man-Who-Lived.”

Harry remained silent. He would hold his tongue until he knew exactly what was going on.

The ribbon wound around his face fell away, exposing Harry’s face to the cold atmosphere of the room. The room was dark, though the few torches that were spaced out along the walls served to outline the shape of the room Harry was in.

Voldemort was standing before him, only a few feet away, dressed in formal black robes with silver trimmings. His red eyes were practically shining in the firelight. Harry had never seen Voldemort look so _ecstatic_ before.

Harry couldn’t imagine ever seeing Voldemort as handsome. Just the sight of him setting off all kinds of alarm bells in Harry’s head. There was too much horror in those red eyes, in those sharp, sneering features. 

“Our guest of honour has at last arrived,” Voldemort continued, turning away, and with a jolt Harry realized that he was addressing the other prisoner in the room.

As Voldemort moved aside, Harry’s eyes fell upon the kneeling figure. His heart constricted painfully at the sight.

“How the mighty have fallen, yes?” asked Voldemort mockingly, his mouth spread into a grin so wildly triumphant that it consumed his entire face. 

Albus Dumbledore was kneeling upon the cold stone floor, his entire body bound in heavy chains. His robes were torn in multiple places, as though he’d been partially fed through a paper shredder.

“ _No_ ,” Harry said, the word slipping unbidden from his lips before he could think to stop it.

“Amazing what a bit of incentive can accomplish,” Voldemort continued, pacing a slow circle around Albus, who was watching Harry with an expression that was far too calm for the situation at hand.

There was a stretch of silence in which Harry stood in shock, attempting to process the fact that Albus had been caught.

“Incentive?” Harry finally asked, wary.

Voldemort paused in his pacing, sweeping the line of his black robes aside as he did so. “On this day, Potter, you will bear witness to my greatest triumph,” he said. “For though I have conquered Wizarding Britain, have pushed the limits of magic beyond what lesser men could comprehend, _have conquered Death itself_ , there remains but one weakness left to crush.”

It was then that Voldemort’s ruby eyes glimmered with a blistering intensity, and his final remark came out sounding strangely like a hiss: “Tonight, Harry Potter, tonight I will conquer Fate.”

Harry’s heart was beating out an unbalanced rhythm as he struggled to fight off his burgeoning fear. He had no idea what Voldemort had planned, but he could now see the room around them more clearly; they were in a ceremonial room, one designed with the express purpose of conducting rituals.

“You—” Harry started, then stopped. He wasn’t sure what to say.

Voldemort laughed. The sound of it was too rich, too _human_ to belong to the monster of a man who had uttered it. “Don’t worry, Potter. You will be left alive at the end of tonight’s little show. Though I am afraid I cannot say the same for our esteemed ex-Headmaster.”

Bile rose up in Harry’s throat. He had to choke it down, his eyes watering slightly in the process. How Albus could look so calm was utterly beyond him. Voldemort was about to conduct some kind of insane dark ritual on them, and there was nothing that either of them could do to stop it.

“Now, from what I’ve gathered,” Voldemort continued, still addressing Harry, “Dumbledore has told you about the existence of my Horcruxes, yes?”

Harry’s gaze flickered to Albus, who was still looking calmly back at Harry from his position on the floor. It was not reassuring.

Voldemort waved his wand, causing a large tome to float up from a table behind him. The book flew forwards, hovering in the air just off to the side, and then it opened to a certain page which Voldemort glanced at briefly. “Horcruxes,” Voldemort began, his tone casual, instructive, “are the anchors of my immortality. They are indestructible, untouchable. They cannot be harmed by any usual magical or physical means. Left alone, my Horcruxes are as immortal as I am.”

Here, Voldemort paused again, his eyes returning to where Harry was still standing motionless.

“I do hope you see where I am headed with this?” Voldemort asked.

Harry did not think he would be able to force words out of his mouth, even if he wanted to.

But apparently the question was rhetorical, because Voldemort said, “You will become my living Horcrux, Harry Potter."

And then Voldemort swept forward, moving until he was mere inches away from Harry. He was too _close,_ and Harry had to resist his urge to flinch away. He didn’t want to give Voldemort the satisfaction.

Then the meaning of the statement sank in. Voldemort wanted to turn him into a Horcrux, like Nagini. Voldemort wanted to turn him into a _Horcrux_.

The fear that Harry had fought valiantly to hold at bay surged violently inside of him, and he thought, for one horrified moment, that he was going to throw up on Voldemort’s feet.

Voldemort smiled, his head tilting sideways as he regarded Harry. The motion was reptilian and creepy—Harry repressed another shudder as Voldemort raised a hand, pressing his fingertips to Harry’s chin, forcing Harry’s head upwards.

“A fitting ceremony, no? The _proper_ way to fulfill the prophecy that haunts us, tying us together.”

“You won’t win,” Harry managed to get the words out. “I’ll find a way to destroy you if it’s the last thing I do.”

“Ah, Potter.” Voldemort seized Harry’s chin, not roughly, but firmly. “I will see to it that you never become that prophesied challenger, that you never find death, no matter how dearly you long for it. My reign will last for all eternity, and you will be powerless to stop me.”

Harry tried to shake his head and jerk it away, but Voldemort held fast, his smile only widening at Harry’s resistance. His hand was warm against Harry’s skin—uncomfortably so, because Harry hadn’t any contact at all since he’d been captured. The fact that it was Voldemort who was touching him made his skin crawl with disgust and anxiety.

“Til death do us part, Potter,” crooned Voldemort, looming closer still. Harry could feel the exhale of hot breath against his face. “There is no escaping _your_ destiny, as I have decided it for you.”

Then Voldemort pulled away. Cold air rushed to fill the space Voldemort’s presence had occupied, and Harry found himself releasing a breath that he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“Now,” said Voldemort as he walked back over to the table. “Let us proceed with the ritual.”

Harry looked back to Albus, hoping desperately that his old mentor had some trick up his sleeve, some final plan that would unfold. But Albus stared back, more sadly than before, and Harry felt his heart contract further into his chest, like it was attempting to protect itself from what was to come.

Voldemort drew out a vial of some sort, which he set delicately upon the table. The liquid within was pitch black, so dark that Harry could have sworn he was staring directly at something that did not actually exist, an empty void. Harry wondered if he was going to be forced to drink the potion, and then he remembered that Voldemort’s other Horcruxes were objects, not people.

Hesitantly, Harry took a step forward. If he could perhaps free Albus from his chains, then there could be a chance—

Catching Harry’s eye, Albus shook his head once, minutely. Harry stilled, unsure. Perhaps there was hope yet? Harry willed Albus to give some kind of sign, some direction for him to take. Surely this could not be the end. There had to be some way out of this.

Voldemort turned back around, aiming his wand at Harry. Before Harry even had the time to flinch, a new rope launched itself from the tip of Voldemort’s yew wand, wrapping itself tightly around Harry’s ankles. Harry lost his balance as the rope constricted, and it took every ounce of strength he had left to twist his body as he fell, so that he fell in such a way where he could still see what was going on.

“Hmm.” Voldemort was still watching Harry, his expression now pensive. Harry squirmed against his bindings in a futile attempt to free himself. The floor was cold underneath his cheek, and he could feel bruises developing along his side where he had slammed into the floor.

With another sweep of his wand, Voldemort levitated Albus onto the table, where both body and chains settled with a heavy thud. Then a large orb appeared in Voldemort’s hand, one similar to the orb Harry had embedded in the ceiling of his cell. Harry was now able to see that there were, in fact, two tables laid out next to each other.

This realization did little to reassure him.

“After you, Potter,” Voldemort said pleasantly, and then Harry felt himself being pulled away from the floor.

Harry flowed through the air until he was deposited gently upon the second table. The orb of light was now hovering between the two tables, giving Harry a clear look at Voldemort’s face. It was a toss up as to what was worse—being forced to look at Voldemort, or facing the other way and being forced to look at Albus, who Harry was still somehow counting on getting them out of this.

Voldemort was now uncorking the potion. He held it up to the light of the orb, examining its opaque consistency. Then he returned his gaze to Harry. “I would attempt to reassure you, but it would lack sincerity, and I would hate for my words to be wasted on meaningless frivolities.”

Harry tried to speak, only to find that he could not. Voldemort must have cast a non-verbal Silencing Charm on him at some point, he thought numbly.

Moving over to Harry, Voldemort held the vial above Harry’s chest, pouring the contents out. The liquid spilled onto Harry, over his heart and ribcage, soaking into his shirt. As the moisture sunk in, it started to burn, though not greatly. It was only mildly uncomfortable, akin to the irritation from the ropes that were binding his limbs together.

Then Voldemort gestured with his wand, rolling Harry over. Albus, on the other table, was flat on his back. He was watching Voldemort.

“Any last words, Dumbledore?” asked Voldemort. He twitched his wand, ostensibly dispelling the Silencing Charm he had cast earlier.

Albus smiled. “Your ego will prove to be your folly, Tom. You have yet to learn from your mistakes.”

“And yet, your ego will lead you to your death,” Voldemort said, snarling. He slashed his wand in a downward motion, and then Albus was silent once more.

Harry had little time to wonder about Voldemort’s sudden anger at being addressed by his birth name before Voldemort turned back to Harry, his crimson eyes burning with fanaticism.

“Remember this,” said Voldemort. “This is the moment where you have lost your war.”

And then Voldemort drew his yew wand up, aiming at Albus—

“ _Avada Kedavra._ ”

The green light blitzed out, striking Albus in the chest, and then everything was still.

For a long time, there was nothing save for the sound of Voldemort’s heavy, exhilarated breaths. Harry did not know how to breathe anymore—he was frozen. His mind was empty, his limbs were wooden. He could not move, or speak, or even think about doing either of those things.

And though a part of Harry was screaming endlessly, the rest of him seemed to accept that the horror was not yet over, that he needed to remain numb for a while longer. lest he succumb to his grief and pain too soon and lose what remained of his sanity.

Voldemort was staring at the body of Albus Dumbledore. At the corpse’s empty, glazed blue eyes. At the gaping mouth and slackened jaw. It was as if Voldemort, too, could not believe what had just happened.

Then, all at once, time resumed.

Harry sucked in a bit of air, his lungs expanding almost painfully. It took some effort for him to tear his eyes away from the other table.

Voldemort lifted his wand once again, his mouth moving, but Harry could only hear the distant sound of hissing fill his ears. However, as the spell continued, the air around them grew heavy and oppressive, to the point where Harry began to thrash upon the table.

The light of the orb was now fading, but Harry couldn’t tell if it was because of his own dying vision, or because of something else more insidious.

The hissing continued, and Harry’s head began to spin.

Then there was a horrible ripping sound that was followed by a painful blaze of light. The light flared into the entire room, forcing Harry to shut his eyes.

Something hit him. It was touching his chest, in the place where Voldemort had drenched him in potion. Harry twisted violently as his vision went from white to black to green in the span of a few seconds.

The hissing changed to screaming, and Harry feverishly hoped that it was Voldemort and not him.

It was then that Harry felt a burning inside of him. Slowly, it started to creep up and out of his chest, as if it was trying to escape notice until it was too late for him to be rid of it.

Well, Harry thought distantly, it was a bit late to try and stop any of this from happening now. So perhaps it was for the best that he let the burning consume him as quickly as possible so that it would end sooner.

The fire spread to Harry’s lungs, licking and curling up around them, constricting his ability to breathe once again. Harry felt a tremor run down his spine, and he tried to hold himself still, as though stillness would help him survive whatever was to come.

As his lungs were swallowed up by the burning, Harry registered that the screaming he could hear now was most definitely his own. He was on the verge of passing out, hovering just on the ledge of it, only the pain had not yet risen to a level that would allow him to finally tip over into unconsciousness.

The burning crawled further along, its pace sedate. Harry’s skin was prickling all over, hyper sensitive to the changes that were happening, however metaphysically, to his body. The fire in him only continued to build, growing more intense with each second that passed, bubbling and boiling just underneath the surface. Something deep inside of him was being violated by the flames. He was being irrevocably changed.

If this was burning alive, Harry never would have wished this on anyone.

Then, after long moments of pain and torture had passed, the spreading stopped. Only the area around his chest had been affected.

Harry was drained. He had no energy to open his eyes, to try and think of ways to fight back. Everything was so far away, and his body no longer felt like his own. It was as though the fire had burned away all of his nerve endings, severing his connection to his own limbs. All he could feel was the agonizing, charred remains of his chest.

“The pain will fade eventually.”

Though Harry hated the voice that spoke the words, the promise came as somewhat of a relief. 

Next was the sound of something hitting the floor. Harry belatedly registered that the ropes constricting his arms and legs were now gone.

A hand touched his chest. Briefly, the fingers drifted over where his heart ought to have been. Then the touch pulled away, and Harry tried to move, to shift, but nothing was working.

“And now we celebrate,” said Voldemort. He sounded less breathless than before, and as he continued to talk, his voice firmed further. “Perhaps I will put you on display, Potter. Kneeling at my feet for all of Wizarding Britain to see.” 

Harry lay there, silent and unresponsive.

“Or perhaps I will be generous and leave you in your cell a while, to think over the beautiful triumph we have achieved here today. The glory of immortality belongs to us both, Harry Potter. You should be thanking me.”

It was getting harder for Harry to follow what was going on. Though he was still in pain, his fatigue was overpowering his desire to remain conscious. It was a wonder Voldemort was still standing after all the magical energy he must have expended, though Harry supposed that Voldemort had the benefit of decades of experience to bolster his stamina.

“I suppose you are in no fit state for company,” Voldemort said at last, after some unknown minutes had gone by. “I will return you to your cell, Potter. Perhaps when you wake, you will wonder if this was all a dream.”

With that, Harry lost hold on the realm of the waking, sliding backwards into the void of his mind, to the place where he would be shielded from the ache and the horror of his new eternal existence.


	6. Isolation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry was doomed to this empty existence forever. Even Voldemort had never returned to see him. Perhaps he was still driven by the delayed fear of Harry somehow growing to fill the role of challenger that he had been foretold to. Perhaps Harry simply didn’t matter to him anymore, now that he had achieved his goal of defeating Fate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> updated tags on the story. tw this chapter for basically all the tags, be warned! also minor tw for self-harm/self-harm mention, though it is nothing graphic.
> 
> if you find harry's POV too triggering, you can skip down to the line break that separates harry's POV from voldemort's without missing too much of the plot.

Existence lost rather a lot of its meaning when time stretched on for long, indeterminable distances.

Each time Harry woke in his cell, the cycle of mental torment would begin anew. There was no daylight to assuage the hour by, nothing to measure the time except for the regular delivery of meals from Dobby, and the occasional Cleaning Charms cast by Narcissa.

Narcissa stayed to talk to him most of the time. She might have even been worried about him. Harry had taken to scratching and pinching at his skin, mostly to check if he was still here in his cell and not actually somewhere else, but Narcissa would glance at his arms and heal them right up.

Harry wished she wouldn’t do that because it only served to distort his sense of reality further. But their brief conversations, however awkward and stilted, were better than the emptiness of the white cushioned walls. 

Aside from that, the days were an endless blur as his sleep patterns grew erratic and irregular. Either he slept through long periods at a time, or he remained awake for endless hours, haunted by nightmares. The flash of green spell fire, and the feeling of being burned alive from the inside out.

Harry had cried and screamed and raged, but eventually even the intense experience of violent emotion failed to move him. If he thought too much about how he felt, it inevitably sent him spiraling down into depression and guilt. It was easier to close off, to be numb. To give himself over to the dizziness and the migraines, to lie down and do nothing at all.

He had failed. He had failed, and now there was nothing left to hope for, not even death.

There was no possibility of death now. Voldemort had sought only the best, had utilized the very source of immortality that he had chosen for himself, and now Harry was to be tethered to a monster forever. Horcruxes could only be destroyed by with certain methods, according to—according—

Horcruxes could only be destroyed using unrecoverable methods. Methods such as Basilisk venom and Fiendfyre. And Harry would never lay hands on anything close to those.

So Harry was doomed to this empty existence forever. Even Voldemort had never returned to see him. Perhaps he was still driven by the delayed fear of Harry growing to fill the foretold role of challenger. Perhaps Harry simply didn’t matter to him anymore now that he had achieved his goal of defeating Fate.

“Potter.”

Harry looked up from where he was laid out on the floor. Narcissa had a bundle of fabric in her arms. Harry was given an occasional change of clothes whenever the Cleaning Charms cast by Narcissa failed to disperse all of the accumulated sweat and dirt embedded in the material. The fact that today was clothing day meant another indeterminate period of time must have passed.

“Hello,” Harry said, sitting up. The arrival of company was an injection of temporary joy into his monotonous routine.

“Some new things for you,” said Narcissa, holding up the bundle of clothing.

“Thanks,” Harry said. He caught the items as she tossed them to him.

He and Narcissa had reached a sort of accord on these things. Harry trusted her not to look, and she trusted him not to try anything stupid like strangling himself with a jumper.

Narcissa turned around, her arms crossed. Hovering by her, Dobby was holding the tray that contained Harry’s meal. Judging by the dish—steamed vegetables and a few slices of pork—it was either time for lunch or dinner.

Harry stripped quickly. Then he pulled on the new clothes, noting that the material of the jumper and trousers was noticeably thicker. Was it already winter?

A pang of dismay went through him at the thought of spending the new year here in captivity. The first of many, he was sure, but the realization was depressing all the same. He was already losing track of the seasons. How long until he began to lose track of the years?

How long until it was no longer Narcissa that came to see him, until it was some other, younger Death Eater whose job it was to replace her? If Voldemort was to live forever, would Harry truly be trapped in this room the entire time? The idea of living in this lifeless space for all eternity frightened him. He would forget everything, given enough time. He would forget his family and his friends. He might even forget what he looked like.

“Potter?”

Looking up, Harry realized he’d been standing motionless, damp tears trailing down his face. “I’m done,” he said. His own voice sounded lifeless to his own ears.

Narcissa resumed facing him. Her eyes trailed over his face, lingering on his beard. Harry hadn’t shaved in months, or however long it had been since he’d gotten here. The facial hair was getting annoying, but he knew that no one was about to allow him a razor to remove it.

Dobby tottered over with the tray of food, which Harry took gratefully. It all smelled good.

Picking up the paper cup of water, Harry took a slow sip from it. “How’s Draco?” he asked her.

“He’s doing well enough,” Narcissa said. She sniffed, then conjured a small stool, which she sat down upon.

Harry’s shoulders slowly relaxed. She had time to stay today.

“And the wedding planning?”

“Is going well, thank you for asking.” Narcissa swept her left leg over her right one. “Astoria is going to be a very beautiful bride. We’ve been looking over gown options for the past few days.”

Scooping up a helping of vegetables, Harry nodded. “You must be very proud.”

And so the conversation would carry on like that for a while, with Harry prompting Narcissa to talk about the things she liked and cared about, anything so that he could keep her presence around for a while longer. If that meant talking about _Draco Malfoy_ , then he would do it, because the alternative was the devastating loneliness he felt when he was left with only his nightmares for company.

* * *

Since Dumbledore’s death, Voldemort had returned to the task of ruling magical Britain with great enthusiasm. Even his Death Eaters were in higher spirits, having been spared the unpredictable temper of their Lord due to his good mood.

Things had been going exceedingly well. The Order was shaken to its very core by Dumbledore’s death, and Voldemort doubted that they would be making any bold moves for the next while. If they did, they would be foolish and poorly-planned, a result of their grief and desperation, which would only leave them open to further attacks.

Potter had gone back to his cell, secure and protected, his activities monitored by the Malfoy matriarch.

Narcissa had reported that Potter was growing restless and liable to self-harm. So Voldemort had instructed her to handle the matter as efficiently as possible. This had evidently resulted in her and Potter having weekly chats, which Voldemort found amusing. Upon searching through her mind with Legilimency, he had uncovered the fact that they were mostly discussing the upcoming wedding of her son, Draco, to the Greengrass youngest.

While the reports from Narcissa continued to prove interesting, the thrill of having bested Dumbledore began to wear off as the weeks wore on. Eventually, Voldemort reverted to the state in which he had been prior to Potter’s arrival. Boredom loomed like a heavy shadow over his shoulder, and Voldemort found himself asking for new torture subjects on a weekly basis simply to have an outlet for his frustrations.

His followers had gone back to avoiding him unless directly called upon, with the exception of the few whose company he tolerated, and, of course, Bellatrix, who was persistent to a fault.

It was on one late December evening that Voldemort called for some entertainment to be brought to the downstairs cells of his manor. He’d had a particularly bad day dealing with the French Minister for Magic, and he planned to torture information out of someone to relieve the stress.

A Mudblood and her blood-traitor husband were delivered into one of the cells in the following hour. According to Avery, their names were Mary and Reginald Cattermole. They had been working with the Order to smuggle Mudbloods out and over the borders.

When Voldemort entered the room, he saw the couple had blindfolds and gags on, and that their hands were bound tightly behind their backs. The woman was making small, high-pitched noises of fear as she struggled to sit up. She was already irritating him, and Voldemort had the sudden insight that this interrogation would not last very long.

He could likely pluck whatever he wanted directly out of their minds using Legilimency, and then, if the Legilimency ruined them, he would dispose of the comatose bodies via incineration.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Voldemort stood in the doorway, thinking. Though Dumbledore had been a constant irritation, he had been, at least in some aspects, a worthy rival. Dumbledore had the intelligence and magical power to defeat Grindelwald, and he had fallen to Voldemort only after years of struggle.

That did demand some respect, though Dumbledore would never have come close to becoming his equal. The man was too foolish, too soft, too prone to wishful ideals of concepts such as _love_. To think that love would save his precious Order was idiocy of the highest magnitude. What good had wishful thinking done for Dumbledore when Voldemort had killed him in cold blood? It was laughable, really.

And to think that Dumbledore had placed all his faith in Potter. Potter was a Horcrux now. He would never die. Potter ought to know exactly where Dumbledore’s foolish notions of love and friendship had landed him—imprisoned and chained for eternity.

It was this thought that reminded Voldemort that Potter was nearby. A few cell doors down, in fact. Just behind the smooth wall that Voldemort had built to hold him captive. Voldemort wondered, for a moment, what Potter would think.

What would Potter think about the Cattermoles being tortured for information? Would he at last see how futile his efforts had been? How ridiculous it was to put your faith in fate?

Voldemort gazed down the corridor. He had no need to wonder when the answers existed a few paces away. Stepping back from the cell, Voldemort slammed the door shut. The woman screeched in terror and her husband yelped in fear, like they were animals rather than a witch and wizard.

Disgusted, Voldemort turned away, stalking down the hall that led to Potter. He dispelled the wall with a wave of his hand and was greeted with the sight of Potter’s back. Curiously, Potter was curled on his side, facing the wall.

Potter scrambled to sit up as he heard Voldemort’s approach, but his expression noticeably paled as he caught sight of the Dark Lord.

There was a long pause in which they stared at each other. Potter’s hair had grown wild since Voldemort had last seen him. Potter had also achieved a thick beard of equally disarrayed black hair that stretched from his chin to his neck.

“Are you… real?” asked Potter, sounding dazed.

“Of course I am,” Voldemort snapped. “Now, you are to come with me. I have some guests I’d like you to meet.”

At the word ‘guests’, Potter flinched, but he rose unsteadily to his feet anyways. Voldemort narrowed his eyes. Had Potter not been moving about? The room was big enough for walking. It would do no good for Potter to grow stagnant, for his muscles to weaken and deteriorate. He would have to tell Narcissa to insist upon an exercise regime.

Voldemort gestured Potter towards the door with his wand, Potter moved cautiously, his eyes fixed upon Voldemort all the way up until he passed through the doorway and Voldemort motioned for him to stop.

The doorway was sealed back up, and then he was directing Potter down the corridor and into the cell with the Cattermoles. Potter moved slowly, his feet dragging against the floor as they entered the room.

This cell was slightly smaller than Potter’s, but it had ample room for the four of them. Potter looked down upon the prisoners, his face twisting. Voldemort locked the door behind them.

“What do you think?”

Potter took his time in turning back around. “Is there a preferred response?”

“Not particularly.” Voldemort stepped over towards the couple, yanking them into the air with his magic. “I was thinking of how to extract information from them.”

“And you wanted an audience.”

“Not quite. What I want, Potter, are your thoughts on the matter.”

The Cattermoles began to rotate in place. The wife was once again whimpering as she spun in a slow circle.

Potter seemed to hesitate, but he spoke again, his tone laced with uncertainty. “They’re not fighters. There’s no reason to hurt them. I’m sure they’ll tell you what you want to know.”

Voldemort waited a moment to see if Potter had anything else to add, but no words emerged. So Voldemort slashed his wand in the gesture for the Severing Charm. There was a pitched scream as a deep gash tore itself into the leg of the husband, splattering blood onto the man’s trousers and dripping onto the floor.

Potter flinched at the violence but he remained where he stood, his mouth drawn tight, his green eyes curiously dull.

The woman was now sobbing pitifully, the sounds muffled by the gag in her mouth.

“You… you really don’t have to,” Potter tried again. “There’s no point in it. Just use Veritaserum, or Legilimency.”

“The point is that I _can_.” Voldemort eyed Potter for a moment. “Those who oppose me must learn that there is no benefit to resistance.” With a second, lazy flick of his wand, Voldemort opened up another wound, and then another, and then another, not caring who it was that he hit, keeping his gaze fixed on Potter the entire time.

Potter’s twitching and flinching grew worse with each gash inflicted, with each cry of pain extracted. “Just—just _please_ ,” said Potter. Then he blinked slowly, like he wanted to shut his eyes from the sight but could not quite bring himself to do it. “Please stop.”

Voldemort lifted his wand. “Though your pleading is amusing, it is not quite enough to convince me to act otherwise.”

Potter crumpled, his body shrinking in on itself. Then he turned back to the Cattermoles. Their bodies were shivering in the cold air of the lower level. Even the woman had grown quiet, as though sensing that they were reaching a pivotal moment.

“You have lost,” Voldemort said calmly. “It’s perfectly reasonable to admit it to yourself now. Your leader is dead, and your prophecy—your _life_ —belongs to me. You have nothing to offer me. This is the knowledge I impart upon you: that your resistance is finished, that your faith was misplaced. From this day forward, Potter, you put your faith in _me_.”

There was a long moment of silence. Potter continued to stare at the Cattermoles, who were most likely bleeding to their deaths by now.

“You think this is amusing,” Potter finally said. It was not a question. “You like torturing people.”

“Debatable. It’s certainly more pleasurable to torture members of your Order than it is to torture my own followers for being incompetent failures. Though both are fairly productive, albeit in different ways.”

“If you just wanted to torture people—” Potter started again, then stopped. His eyes flickered to Voldemort, then back to the Cattermoles. “If that’s all you wanted, if you only need information from them, you can it get in other ways, you don’t have to—” His voice faltered for the second time, and then his eyes sharpened momentarily, regaining some of the clarity that Voldemort remembered from before. “You don’t have to hurt them,” Potter repeated. “If you want—need—then you can do it to me, instead.”

The opportunity was too good to pass on. Voldemort stepped closer, pressing his wand against Potter’s face. “You would give yourself over to torture for them?”

A fog of breath passed between them. “Yes,” Potter said. “I would.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> estimating the total chapters of this story will be 10, but we'll see.
> 
> writing this chapter was actually rather painful :/ but things will start to look up in chapter 8, i think. whew.
> 
> thanks for reading along.


	7. Bargain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Voldemort knew that the Order had been tracking his Horcruxes. Dumbledore would have put them onto it. And now that they had apparently found one, Lupin wanted to trade it away for Potter’s life. Only what the Order did not know was that Potter, too, had been turned into a Horcrux.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pretty graphic stuff at the start of this chapter. *ducks away*

Potter was serious.

He was willing to submit himself to torture for the sake of these people he barely knew. For the sake of these people he could not save.

“You underestimate the level of pain I would be inflicting upon you,” Voldemort said.

Potter straightened up, his shoulders moving back. “Try me.”

Voldemort considered him for a moment. Potter’s eyes, once vibrant green, had regained some of the fire that Voldemort had once seen in them. Potter had been willing to give his life for the Order’s cause, but Voldemort had not expected that willingness to extend past their defeat. Even now, after being forced into captivity and molded into darkness, Potter still held defiance in him.

There was a flash of light as Voldemort’s yew wand cut across the air, and Potter grunted as the spell caught him in the leg. But though his knees trembled, Potter remained standing, his lips pressed into a thin line.

The couple behind them was quiet, though Voldemort could still hear their terrified breaths.

Stalking forward, Voldemort backed Potter into the wall, holding his wand underneath Potter’s chin. Those viridescent eyes shone with conviction, bright as gemstones.

“Even before,” Potter said, his voice soft, “I never feared death. I fear it less now. Do your worst, _Tom_.”

Though Voldemort knew that Potter was only trying to incite anger, resentment that rose in him at hearing his Muggle father’s name. Voldemort drew his wand down, dragging at Potter’s shirt and exposing the collarbone. Perhaps cutting into the bone would teach him some manners.

As he eyed Potter, however, Voldemort found that this idea became unappealing. Going too far would only serve to increase Potter’s aggression, to firm Potter’s belief that to choose Voldemort was to choose wrongly. To win Potter over, to break him fully, there needed to be more than pain—there needed to be meaning. A reminder. Something more than pain.

So Voldemort began to carve a line into Potter’s skin. Shallow at first, then deeper as Potter began to struggle, teeth clenched in an effort to hold back his noises of pain. The carving continued past the point of screaming, with Voldemort fully focused on the task of inflicting savage lines upon the insolent martyr he held pressed against the wall with his magic.

When the deed was done, Voldemort pulled away, and the removal of his weight was what at last allowed Potter to slump to the floor, bloody and exhausted.

The lighting bolt shape stretched from below Potter’s collarbone all the way down to just above his hip. Crude, but also elegant, in a way. The wound would heal eventually, leaving behind a definite scar as all dark magic did. A mockery of the symbolic saviour Potter was supposed to be.

Turning back to the couple, Voldemort noted that they were both now unconscious. Had he delayed any longer with his fixation on Potter, they likely would have died. Stepping over, Voldemort opened up the man’s eyelids with his wand and applied Legilimency. It only took a few minutes of searching to separate the useful information from the useless. Names, dates, locations. Nothing of import, but then again he’d not expected much. As Potter had said, they were not fighters. They were not privy to much of what went on in the Order.

The task of extraction completed, Voldemort sent a summons to Avery to come collect the bodies. While he waited, he conjured quill and parchment, transcribing the useful information that would pass to the Ministry for future usage.

From where he lay, Potter began to stir, coughing.

“Just a moment,” Voldemort said absently. With a flick of his hand, an invisible force pinned Potter’s arms to his sides, restricting his movements.

Potter made a noise that was not quite a word. Voldemort finished the sentence he was writing, then banished the quill, rolling up the parchment and looking over at Potter, who was once again staring at the two figures suspended in the air.

“Did you—did you kill them?” Potter wheezed, his chest heaving, which only further served to aggravate his injury. It was pitiful, really. That he was still trying to care about other people.

“Whether or not I killed them is irrelevant.”

“We… we had a deal,” Potter said, now trying to sit up.

Voldemort dispelled his previous magic, then guided Potter into a sitting position. After a moment’s consideration, he applied a minor numbing charm as well. If Potter passed out, their conversation would come to an end, and Voldemort was still curious as to what Potter had to say. “Did we? I seem to recall that I agreed to torture you in their stead. I made no promise to keep them alive.”

Potter eyed the floating figures, squinting. His glasses were askew, but he made no motion to right them. After a while of staring, he seemed to ascertain that the two people were still breathing, though barely.

“What will you do with them?” Potter asked. When Voldemort didn’t answer, he added, “Throw them in Azkaban?”

“It is no longer my concern,” Voldemort said. “Nor is it yours. Can you walk?”

Potter looked confused at the abrupt change of topic. “I—yes.”

The cell door opened with a near-silent creak, drawing Potter’s gaze. Voldemort gestured at the door, a taunting smile on his face. “After you, then.”

There was a long, drawn-out moment as Potter pulled himself to his feet, his entire body trembling. As he stood, he looked down at his chest, frowning. His hand brushed over the tears in his shirt, over the lines drawn into his skin.

“Potter,” Voldermort snapped.

Potter’s head jerked up, his face pulling into a pained wince at the sudden motion. Then his eyes shifted back to the Cattermoles.

“If you do not leave this room immediately,” Voldemort said, voice light, “then I will make _sure_ that they are dead, Potter.”

Reluctantly, Potter started to move. It was slow going, but they walked back to the padded cell, stopping at the wall that covered the entrance. Voldemort made the door reappear, then stepped aside to allow Potter to enter first.

Potter walked at a glacial pace, reluctant. He was limping, though he was also making a clear effort to avoid doing so. “Will—can we do this again?”

Voldemort followed him into the room, vanishing the opening behind them. “Why, Potter, I had no idea you enjoyed our little session so much.”

“I meant the deal,” Potter said. “Me for the others.”

“I already have you, Potter. I do not need you to _agree_ to anything.”

Potter said nothing in response, his face curiously blank. The look in his eyes—so distant as to seem nearly dead—was oddly off-putting. Potter fingered the cut on his chest, tracing down the middle of the bolt shape, then said, “But I’m different, aren’t I?”

Voldemort regarded his Horcrux with a critical eye. “I suppose you are.”

* * *

Though Voldemort had not informed her of any injuries, Narcissa did not question Potter’s latest physical state. However, she did make a note in her weekly report that she had applied stitches to Potter and kept the wounds clean. An exercise regime was applied, and in exchange for his cooperation, Potter was given some books to read to pass the time.

Life resumed as it had before, and eventually Voldemort became too preoccupied with the matters of his domain to bother with thoughts of Potter.

Voldemort had planned to develop a new set of wards designed to immediately detect and block the use of Muggle technologies at the borders. This would help deal with the Order of the Phoenix, who were attempting to smuggle Mudbloods out of the country.

It was productive to have goals. The completion of a task that led to greater results. The feeling of success over the enemy, regardless of who the enemy was. The Order had hoped Harry Potter would save them, and now Voldemort would prove to them just how foolish they had been.

As the end of the year drew closer, the Order of the Phoenix resumed more frequent operations. The Ministry was hard at work sorting out the disturbances, arresting the perpetrators when possible.

It was after one such arrest that Remus Lupin was brought to the Dark Lord’s manor.

According to the Aurors who had made the arrest, the werewolf in question had turned himself in. This was intriguing, and so Voldemort was looking forward to the interrogation. Lupin was a friend of Potter’s as well, which provided further avenues for entertainment.

But the priority was to ascertain what Lupin wanted. Perhaps he had decided to join the winning side. While Voldemort had little need for another werewolf in his ranks, it would be interesting to determine how genuine Lupin's intentions were. If Lupin wanted to join the Death Eaters, it would be fun to pit him against the Order in battle.

Voldemort made his way to one of his many chamber rooms, where Lupin was waiting. The chamber was already well lit as he entered. Most of the torches along the walls of the room were burning.

Avery was standing in the center of the room. Lupin was kneeling at his feet, his hands and arms bound in silver chains. Perhaps a tad excessive, given that the full moon was over a week away and Lupin had never struck Voldemort as the powerful type. Quick and intelligent, perhaps. But not magically powerful enough to break restraints without a wand.

“Leave him to me,” Voldemort told his servant.

Avery bowed low and left the room.

That left only the werewolf. Voldemort took his time in walking over to Remus Lupin.

“They tell me you turned yourself in,” Voldemort said. “I must admit, I am curious as to what brings you to my doorstep.”

Lupin looked up, then. There were dark, bruising shadows under his eyes.

“I want… I want to make a deal,” Lupin said.

The familiar words drew an unwitting chuckle out of Voldemort. “A deal? I suppose you wish to ask for the freedom of your dear saviour, Harry Potter.”

Lupin winced, but nodded. “I do.”

“And what do you have to offer me, werewolf?”

A moment passed. Lupin seemed to struggle with himself, his head hung low. Voldemort waited, unwilling to break the silence. 

“I want to trade you for one of your Horcruxes,” Lupin said, sounding as though the words had been torn out of him. “Harry doesn’t fulfil the requirement of being your greatest challenger. You don’t need to keep him here.”

Voldemort knew that the Order had been tracking his Horcruxes. Dumbledore would have put them onto it. And now that they had apparently found one, Lupin wanted to trade it away for Potter’s life. Only what the Order did not know was that Potter, too, had been turned into a Horcrux.

“It’s a locket,” Lupin continued. “Slytherin’s locket.”

This simple statement sparked an unprecedented level of anger. Voldemort had not expected the Order to succeed. The fact they had gotten their hands on a piece of his soul… Voldemort paused to consider the ramifications of this. The only way the Order could have identified the locket as a Horcrux was if they had found it. Though Voldemort had always publicized his Slytherin heritage, the locket was thought to have been lost over a century ago. The Gaunts were dead, and Voldemort had eliminated Borgin himself, thus eliminating any possibility of the locket’s new ownership being discovered.

“The locket in exchange for Potter, then, is that what you are suggesting?”

Lupin nodded his head in a sharp jerk. “Yes.”

“I will consider your offer,” Voldemort said briskly. “Is there anything else? Any other conditions the Order has set?”

Lupin shifted backward, hesitant. Then he shook his head. Voldemort smiled back. The werewolf had likely not suspected such an amicable response. It would keep him off guard.

Voldemort took a step forward and pulled out his wand, enjoying the way the werewolf’s eyes were automatically drawn towards it. With a swish and a flick, Lupin’s body was levitated into the air.

Time to see what information there was to be had.

As his mind was sifted through, Lupin began to struggle. Limbs twitching, eyes shifting. But Voldemort pressed onward, knowing that the werewolf’s defenses would be no match for his own skill at Legilimency. Memories were sorted and discarded. Flashes of the locket that had once belonged to Salazar Slytherin flickered in and out of existence as Lupin attempted to hide his knowledge.

Eventually, Voldemort found what he’d been looking for. He withdrew from Lupin’s mind. The werewolf was telling the truth. He had come to possess one of Voldemort’s Horcruxes.

“The Order doesn’t know,” Voldemort drawled, surprised. “You’ve come here well and truly alone.”

Lupin kept his gaze fixed at some point in the distance.

“This does change things,” Voldemort continued. “It was clever of you, to hide the Horcrux and Obliviate yourself of the location. But I do wonder who you entrusted this knowledge to. I imagine it would not have been easy to lift such a valuable item from the Order’s clutches.”

Still no response. Voldemort lowered the werewolf back to the floor with a lazy gesture. As the chains resettled, Lupin looked up. He seemed weary. Perhaps he only wanted Potter back because he had no one else. According to others, Lupin and Black had raised the boy together after the parents had passed. Black was long dead, now. Potter would be the only family the werewolf had left.

“You will wait here a moment, and I shall bring Potter to come see you. A gift for the information you have given me, if you will.”

And then he moved closer, the better to tower over the werewolf kneeling at his feet.

“Am I not generous, Remus Lupin? You ought to be thanking me.”

Lupin’s lips moved, though no sound came out. Then he tried again, and this time there were words, though they were stiff and rusted: “Thank you.”

Voldemort laughed. His amusement echoed around the chamber. Directing his wand at Lupin for the second time, Voldemort cast a silent _Stupefy_.

The werewolf tipped over onto the floor with a clang, and Voldemort exited the room, locking it behind him.

* * *

Potter was propped up against the back wall of his cell, reading a book. Notably, his hair and beard had been groomed and trimmed. Voldemort supposed that Narcissa must have grown tired of the caveman look. Dressed in a grey jumper and denim jeans, Potter looked almost comfortable here in his prison.

“Potter,” he greeted, just as his Horcrux looked up.

Potter said nothing, but he kept his eyes fixed on Voldemort as he shut his book and placed it carefully to the side.

“I have a special surprise for you today,” Voldemort told him. “Someone is here to see you.”

Potter jerked to his feet. The motion was unbalanced; Potter had to grip the wall to hold himself steady. “Who is it?” Potter asked, too quickly.

“This way.”

Voldemort stepped aside to allow Potter passage through the doorway.

They walked to the chamber room. Potter was quiet, though his steps were fast. He kept glancing around at the hallways, at the paintings on the walls, at the decorative carpets on the floor.

When they arrived at the chamber, Voldemort gave Potter a nudge as they entered the room. “Before you start yelling at me: he’s not dead.”

Potter stumbled over to where Lupin was laid upon the floor, placing his fingertips against the werewolf’s neck. When he found the pulse, his shoulders relaxed.

“ _Rennervate_ ,” said Voldemort.

Lupin woke with a gasp, coughing. Potter pulled him into a sitting position.

“Harry?” croaked Lupin. “Harry, you’re alive—”

Voldemort let them have their little moment of comfort. And then, once a lull appeared in the conversation, Voldemort drew closer. Lupin and Potter fell silent.

“Lupin wishes to trade you for one of my Horcruxes,” Voldemort said, smiling down upon them both. “I felt it would be fitting for you to explain the irony behind his offer.”

Potter moved, putting his body in front of the werewolf’s. But Voldemort did nothing. He was waiting for Potter to speak.

“No? Nothing to say?” Voldemort cocked his head to the side, a mocking display of curiosity. “Shall I do the honour?”

“I’m a Horcrux,” Potter said abruptly, but he was not looking at Lupin as he said it. He was looking at Voldemort.

Voldemort could not see Lupin’s face from this angle, but the noise of pain the werewolf made was well worth the detour of bringing Potter here.

“So you see, regardless of whether Potter fills the prophecy or no, while he lives, so do I.”

Potter was kneeling next to the werewolf, but his posture was straight, defiant. No doubt he would attempt to bargain for Lupin’s life, given the opportunity. The Order was weak due to their feelings of love and affection. They would endure the worst and give up their most valuable, all out of a duty of care. Even Potter, who ought to be devoid of hope, was still _trying_.

“A Horcrux for a Horcrux. At first glance, it could be viewed as a fair trade,” Voldemort said. “But Potter’s value stretches far beyond the typical.”

Lupin was stricken, frozen in horror, his heavy chains silent.

“This is what will happen,” Voldemort said in a smooth tone, “because I do believe the Order must learn to not touch things that do not belong to them. You will either lead me to my Horcrux yourself, werewolf, or I will tear your mind apart to find my answers, and then simply have one of my followers retrieve it.”


	8. Connection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Voldemort’s red eyes glittered in the firelight. Harry wondered if he’d gone too far, but then— 
> 
> Laughter. The sound of it, rich and full of amusement, rang in Harry’s ears. “Creative,” Voldemort praised. “I would not have expected this from Dumbledore’s golden child.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not really sure what additional warnings to add this time. imperius curse, also general mind fuckery, maybe? stockholm syndrome definitely applies here. unreliable narrator etc.
> 
> just proceed with caution if you're sensitive, i suppose.
> 
> thank you to @waitingondaisies for being my sounding board for this chapter even though she doesn't like what happens to harry in this story :(

“Here is what is going to happen,” Voldemort said, in a smooth tone. “Because I do believe the Order must learn to not touch things that do not belong to them. You will either lead me to my Horcrux yourself, werewolf, or I will tear your mind apart to find my answers, and then simply have one of my followers retrieve it.”

Harry moved back, placing a hand on Remus’ shoulder. “Let me talk to him,” Harry said. “Don’t say anything just yet.”

Remus did not relax, though he did nod his assent.

Harry stood, feeling the scars on his chest tug uncomfortably as he did so. Voldemort was watching him, but Harry wasn’t afraid. “I told you that you don’t need to hurt people to get what you want,” Harry said.

“And? I have offered your precious werewolf a way out, have I not?”

“You’ll hurt people to get it back,” Harry said. “You’ll kill anyone who stands in your way. I would never choose that, and Remus wouldn’t either. We would die before we betrayed our friends.”

“Ah,” Voldemort said, smiling. “But you see, Remus Lupin did not visit us on behalf of the Order. He’s come of his own accord, prepared to bargain for your life with the Horcrux he _stole_. The location in his mind has been Obliviated. To retrieve it would mean I would need to tear every single memory of his apart, piece by piece. And even then, there is no guarantee that the original memory would be fully recoverable. I am told, however, that the agony is worse than the death that follows it.”

Harry resisted the urge to turn back to look at Remus. Whatever Remus had done, he had already done it. Harry could forgive Remus for this, for throwing away one small chance at defeating Voldemort in favour of rescuing his only remaining family. 

“Then how do you expect him to lead you to it?” Harry pressed.

“He’s entrusted the information to someone, clearly. I would assume they’ve been instructed to wait for his return.”

And Polyjuice was not an option because Remus was not fully human. Harry mulled over the problem further. Either way, Voldemort would find a way to brute force the result he wanted. That was the lesson he was attempting to enforce on both Remus and Harry.

Harry bit down on his lower lip. He had to appeal to Voldemort’s ego. He had to present a situation that gave Voldemort control.

“You should—” Harry began, then faltered.

Voldemort raised a brow at him. “I _should_?”

Too presumptuous, to use the word ‘should’. Harry cursed himself, trying to force his sluggish brain to come up with something better. Voldemort was going to find out everything Remus was trying to hide. The only thing Harry could do now was damage control.

“Use the Imperius Curse,” Harry said. “Then you can retrieve the locket without having to worry about betrayal or traps.”

Voldemort’s red eyes glittered in the firelight. Harry wondered if he’d gone too far, but then—

Laughter. The sound of it, rich and full of amusement, rang in Harry’s ears. “Creative,” Voldemort praised. “I would not have expected this from Dumbledore’s golden child.”

The compliment festered in Harry’s gut. He didn’t want it there, taking up space inside of him. “And then after you get it back, Remus can be let go.” Harry swallowed, then added, “He can tell the Order what happened to me.”

Voldemort stepped closer, gesturing for Harry to stand. Harry hesitated, but decided it was better to go along with it. As Harry pulled himself to his feet, Remus made a noise of protest, his chains clanking. 

Harry kept his gaze firmly fixed upon Voldemort’s. One more step would put them within touching distance of each other. Voldemort was now maybe two feet away. Though Harry was shorter than Voldemort was, he could see the man’s face clearly. High cheekbones, dark swath of hair. Very faint lines around the eyes and mouth. A young face for a man who was purported to be in his eighties.

Voldemort’s hand came to rest on Harry’s shoulder, the nails of his fingers biting through the fabric. “I think I would like to see you do the honours,” Voldemort said. “It is, after all, your plan.”

Harry found it hard to breathe. Fear had constricted his lungs, though the exact source of said fear was still unclear. Perhaps it was because the last time Voldemort had been this close, Harry had gotten a curse scar for his troubles. A scar that had yet to fade, and probably never would, despite the fact that it was healing at a faster rate than usual, likely because Harry was now a—

“I will monitor the situation with Legilimency, of course,” Voldemort continued, tone pleasant. “It wouldn’t do for you to… deviate… from the desired result.”

Harry nodded slowly, his chest tight as he tried to inhale.

“Excellent. Let us commence, then.”

The hand on Harry’s shoulder withdrew, and Harry watched, numb, as Voldemort paced over to where a large, throne-like chair was situated against the back wall of the chamber. Remus, who had been levitated, floated along until he was deposited at Voldemort’s feet.

This was too soon. Harry wasn’t ready to do this now. He needed time to mentally prepare himself, to come to terms with the decision he’d made, to be sure that it was the _right_ decision and not some horrible mistake.

“Come,” Voldemort commanded.

Obediently, Harry shuffled forward until he was once again next to Remus. Remus was shaking his head, mouthing words that Harry could not hear. Maybe Voldemort had silenced him. Maybe it was the ringing in Harry’s head that was drowning everything out, everything except the Dark Lord’s dulcet tones.

“We will proceed with the Legilimency first, Potter.” Voldemort tapped his wand against his knee a few times, the motion impatient. “You will allow me access to your mind. If I sense any treachery in either of you, I will not hesitate to kill him, and then I will torture you for my own amusement.”

Harry nodded again, not trusting his voice to speak. He had to do this. If he did this, Remus had a chance to live. Any amount of torture would be worth that.

“Although, I do wonder what else I could convince you to try. Would you cast the Cruciatus, if I asked? Would you torture him, if it meant sparing him in the end?”

Harry jerked his head from side to side before he’d even realized what he was doing. It wouldn’t do anything to argue. There was no argument against Voldemort’s sadism. Nausea threatened to bubble up and spill over inside of him. Harry felt sick, like someone had rammed a lead pipe down his throat and whipped up the contents of his stomach into a frenzy.

“Or perhaps I could have him cast it on you,” Voldemort mused. “Though I doubt the spell would be very powerful.”

Harry couldn’t bear to look at Remus. His entire field of vision was consumed by the horror, by Voldemort. He couldn’t do this, he couldn’t do this, he couldn’t—

“Do you want… do you want me to beg?” Harry asked. His own voice sounded lifeless to his own ears. “I’ll do it, if that’s what you want.”

The resulting silence stretched on for an indeterminate period of time.

“Bring me my Horcrux without any trouble,” Voldemort said at last, “and I will let your friend live to tell the tale.” 

Harry could hardly believe his own ears. His mouth opened, gaping, though he said nothing.

“Do we have a deal?” Voldemort asked, the corner of his mouth twisting up into an imitation of a smile.

Harry managed to answer this time. “Yes,” he croaked.

“Legilimency first. Then I will allow you a wand, and you will cast the Imperius upon the werewolf. Once I am satisfied, I will remove the chains and set the werewolf free.”

“Yes,” Harry repeated.

Voldemort leant in, his wand in hand, his deep red eyes intent upon their target.

Harry tried to relax, to not blink, to squash the fight or flight response that had kept him alive for so many years. His mind was swimming with static, and he wondered if Voldemort would be able to hear any coherent thoughts at all.

Then Harry felt the foreign sensation of something pressing against his mind.

“Relax, Potter.”

Harry tried. The mere act of keeping his eyes open felt impossible. All of his body parts felt very far away. But slowly, surely, his Occlumency shields dropped, exposing the entirety of his mind to Voldemort. Connection established, Harry could feel the invading presence slip inside, settling down into his mind like it belonged there.

“Very good,” Voldemort said.

The words sent an ugly shudder across Harry’s skin. He didn’t like it, he didn’t want it, and the fact that Voldemort could pick this thought out of his head made him want to throw up—

“Now,” Voldemort said, his sharp tone cutting through Harry’s disordered brain. “The Imperius.” With a long-fingered hand, Voldemort reached into his robes and retrieved a wand. It was not one that Harry recognized; he supposed it must have been a spare.

“You would be correct in assuming so,” Voldemort said, answering Harry’s unspoken thoughts.

Harry’s empty wand hand twitched.

Voldemort tossed the wand over and Harry caught it. The wood was smooth and polished, and the wand felt oddly familiar in Harry’s hand. He rubbed his thumb against the handle; a few colourful sparks shot out of the tip of the wand.

“It accepts you.” Voldemort sounded pleased about this. Harry was decidedly not pleased.

Harry took a deep breath, then raised his wand arm experimentally, testing the weight of it. It was a bit heavier than his old wand. His holly and phoenix wand.

“Time to cast, Potter,” said Voldemort.

Reluctantly, Harry turned to face Remus. His friend’s eyes were wide, pleading. Remus had only wanted to save him, had only wanted to help.

“I’m sorry,” Harry said. It had to be done. Raising the wand in his hand a second time, Harry intoned, “ _Imperio._ ”

As Harry felt the threads of magic connect him to Remus, the sick feeling inside of him was expanding, swelling, filling up his stomach and pressing up against his ribs. He was getting overwhelmed. The feeling of the Imperius, of Voldemort being in his fucking head, all piled on top of the shame and disgust he felt for himself—Harry was beginning to spiral.

Then the thing in his mind, which had been still up until this point, moved. It crept across, its footsteps light as it flew through Harry’s mind. It landed somewhere, and Harry felt an unnerving sense of calmness wash over him.

_Much better._

Harry’s hand froze mid-air. The Imperius was still active, but Harry was having difficulty initiating any commands.

“I will permit the werewolf to leave the wards,” Voldemort said aloud. “And you will have him Apparate to wherever he would normally go following the event of his capture.”

Harry used his new tranquillity to redirect his focus. Remus had to Apparate out of here. He had to get away so he could be safe. Harry breathed in a lungful of air, then breathed it back out.

The chains holding Remus captive fell away, melting into the air as though they had never been there in the first place. Remus stood up. His legs were unsteady beneath him after spending untold hours with his limbs tied together. Then he held still, waiting for the command.

_Retrieve the Horcrux._

Remus vanished with a loud crack, and some part of Harry quivered in palpable relief. Remus was gone. He was safe. Though the task was not yet done, this, at least, brought Harry some comfort.

Now all that was left to do was to wait. Harry could still feel the connection of the Imperius, stretched though it was over this distance. Remus was too worn down to fight against it. Whatever torture he had been put through before he’d been delivered to Voldemort, compounded by the crushing knowledge that Harry could not be saved, must have killed any lingering hope that had remained inside Remus Lupin’s heart.

* * *

A few hours passed, and Remus did not return. Harry began to worry that his Imperius would not hold, that his magic would not last long enough to bring the Horcrux back to the manor. He knew that if he failed, Voldemort would seek out the Horcrux himself, and then no one’s life would be spared. Yet every time his anxiety resurfaced, it was just as quickly brushed aside, banished to some back corner of his mind.

The suppression of his worst emotions was welcome after so many weeks of agony. To feel nothing painful, to be dedicated to the task at hand. It was almost like Harry was under the Imperius himself, only Harry was keenly aware of all his other emotions, aware of the thing in his head. Somehow, during Remus’ absence, Voldemort’s constant presence had grown from uncomfortable to frighteningly pleasant. 

The minutes stretched on, but the spell did not weaken. Harry’s magic felt as strong as ever, though he had not touched a wand since he’d been taken captive. Maybe Voldemort’s presence in his mind was helping to bolster the connection, Harry wasn’t sure.

Voldemort had conjured a cushion for Harry to sit upon. They were still in the chamber room, and Voldemort was still sat upon his stupid throne. Harry wanted to lie down because he was tired and aching all over from keeping two connections going at once, but there was no space to do so.

The thing in Harry’s head twitched. It felt bigger now. Or perhaps Harry’s available mind space had shrunken in its attempt to cope, and so the thing was only _proportionally_ larger. Harry didn’t care much anymore. He just wanted this to be over with. He wanted to know that his plan had succeeded and that his friends were all safe.

The cushion beneath Harry shifted. Blearily, Harry patted his hand downwards, trying to see if he’d moved onto the floor by accident. His hand met with cloth and more cloth. This discovery was alarming enough that Harry cast his gaze downwards as well. The cushion was no longer a cushion. The entire thing had expanded to about the size of a small cot.

Harry looked over at Voldemort, who had summoned a stack of papers about two hours ago and was now systematically making his way through the pile.

Cautiously, Harry lay down. The cushion was comfortable enough that Harry worried he might fall asleep on top of it. If he did, the spell would break, and he would fail.

“You won’t,” Voldemort said. His eyes were still fixed upon his work.

Harry blinked, his eyelids heavy. That was hard to believe. It felt like a trick. Harry tried to sit back up, but he found his arms were uncooperative. The detached sensation from before had returned. Somewhat desperately, Harry tried to prod at the presence in his mind, hopeful that it might help with expelling the numbness from his body.

_Stubborn._

Annoyed, Harry made a point to think about how rude this comment was. However, the act of pushing the thought out was exhausting all on its own, and Harry almost regretted it. Almost. A quick check confirmed that the Imperius was still there, a tenuous connection to Remus that existed only in the back of his mind. Harry needed to be more careful, lest he accidentally break focus.

Unable to sit up, Harry lay upon the cushion, trying to stay awake. Eventually, his breathing began to even out, very much against his will. He would not fall asleep. He would not pass out here on the floor while Remus was in danger. He would not let Voldemort win.

* * *

Some time later, Harry found his way back to consciousness. Heart-stopping panic overtook him as he frantically scrambled to check his connection to the Imperius. The other thing in his brain was there, distracting him by insistently pressing up against the innermost parts of his mind.

“Calm down.” It was Voldemort’s voice that echoed both in Harry’s ears and inside of his skull.

Opening his eyes, Harry sat bolt upright and was stunned to see that Remus had returned. Remus was kneeling by Voldemort’s throne, his head turned away from where Harry was sitting on the makeshift cot.

Casting his consciousness out, Harry found that the Imperius connection was gone. The wand Harry had been holding was also gone.

Voldemort had his own wand in one hand and the locket in the other. The locket dangled loosely downwards, a shroud of dark magic emanating from it. “I have received what belongs to me, and I shall honour my promise,” Voldemort said. “Your werewolf friend will be allowed to return, tail between his legs, to deliver news of Harry Potter.”

Relief sunk in. Harry’s entire body slumped, grateful. He had not failed. Things had turned out okay. Harry nodded in lieu of speaking.

“Say your goodbyes.”

Remus rose to his feet, dreadfully slow. When he was finally facing Harry, his mouth crumpled into a deep frown. The years had not been kind to Remus, who had lost all his friends and family to the war. He was weary and old and defeated.

Harry hoped that Remus would give up after this, would leave the war behind. Remus was the only remaining family link to his parents, and Harry wanted him to find peace. The guilt and shame Remus would no doubt feel after this failing would not help.

“This isn’t your fault,” Harry said. “You were only trying to do a good thing.”

‘Harry, I—” Remus’ started, then cut himself off. He tried again, “I am so sorry. We failed you in so many ways.”

“You didn’t,” Harry said. “We all knew this was inevitable. Don’t beat yourself up over this, okay? Go somewhere else. Live a better life than the one here.”

“I couldn’t,” Remus said, stricken. “Knowing you’re here, being held prisoner—”

“Remus,” said Harry, firming his voice, forcing conviction into his words. “I accepted this a long time ago. Tell the Order that I don’t regret anything. Tell Ron and Hermione I love them and—” His nerve failed him, his voice cracking.

The presence in his mind was strangely silent.

“Good bye,” Harry finished, reaching up to rub at the tears trailing down his cheeks. “Don’t ever fucking come back.”

Remus’ looked as though he’d rather kill himself. “Harry—”

“That will do.” Voldemort’s smooth tenor sliced through the conversation, cutting Remus off entirely. “Either you will leave, or I will change my mind about letting you live.”

“Remus, please, just go.” Harry forced his eyes to the ceiling so he would not be tempted to watch as Remus left him.

Seconds passed, and then Harry heard the sound of Apparition.

Though his heart was breaking, Harry kept his head tilted upwards, counting the number of tiles that he could see. Counting them one at a time, thinking of nothing but the numbers.

“Get out of my head,” Harry said.

There was a pause, and then the presence retreated. Harry ignored the gaping hole, the way his head felt emptier without it there. He stared at the ceiling. He counted the tiles.

The door to his left creaked open. Harry looked down to see that Voldemort was already standing next to the exit. The papers Voldemort had been working on were gone, and he was wearing a neutral expression.

“After you,” said Voldemort.

Harry sucked in a breath and walked for the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whew! i did promise it was gonna get marginally better and here is where that starts! lmao it only took us like twenty-four thousand words to get here.
> 
> the plot did take a little tweak as i wrote this chapter. the end result will be the same, but the path to get there might be a little different. this remus arc took a little longer than i expected, so we might see a total of eleven chapters, i'm not sure.
> 
> on the bright side, i do feel really good about this chapter and the general direction it took. would love to hear your thoughts on it :) thanks for reading!


	9. Mirror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As if they had been waiting for his permission, Harry’s legs folded in on themselves, and Harry landed down on the carpet with a soft thud. He felt safer now that he was closer to the ground. There was less that could touch him if he shrunk down low enough, if he curled up enough. 
> 
> Stroking his fingers along the texture of the rug, Harry resolved to keep an eye on the door. When Voldemort returned, Harry had to be alert and ready.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter would have been longer, only i liked where this ended. so guess this is just the way it is!

As he and Voldemort exited the chamber room, Harry realized he didn’t know which way he was supposed to go. When Harry had first been brought to this chamber, he had tried to map the path they’d taken to this room., but none of the knowledge had managed to stick around in his head.

“This way.”

Voldemort turned left, so Harry followed him. He was too exhausted to bother with paying any attention to where they were going.

They walked down a hallway, moving towards what Harry assumed was a separate wing of the manor.

When they stopped, however, it was not in the basement of the lower level where Harry’s cell resided. They had actually gone up a flight of stairs, and they were now standing in front of another door. Harry watched with trepidation as Voldemort unlocked the door to the new room with his wand. Then Voldemort gestured with the wand again, and the room lit up. Harry didn’t wait to be ordered inside—he passed through the doorway and began to look around.

It was a bedroom.

Four-poster bed, heavy black curtains. A small writing desk and a cherry wood bookshelf lined up along the left wall. The walls were a dark forest green.

Voldemort moved past Harry, walking to the window. He began to cast more spells. Harry stood very still in the middle of the room, unsure what to do. Despite the fact that he’d already slept for some unknown amount of time, he didn’t have the energy to question what was happening.

Once the spell casting was done, Voldemort stepped back over to Harry.

“You will stay here,” Voldemort said.

Harry forced himself to nod.

Voldemort swept from the room, the door shutting behind him with a click, and Harry was alone.

Harry stood there a moment longer. Was this Voldemort’s room? The room lacked any of the lavish personal touches Harry would have expected. Looking down, Harry eyed the carpet beneath his feet. Dark grey rope wound in a spiral. Maybe he could… maybe he could just sit down. Voldemort had let him lie down, earlier. Sitting ought to be okay.

Just for a short while, just until Voldemort came back.

As if they had been waiting for his permission, Harry’s legs folded in on themselves, and Harry landed down on the carpet with a soft thud. He felt safer now that he was closer to the ground. There was less that could touch him if he shrunk down low enough, if he curled up enough.

Stroking his fingers along the texture of the rug, Harry resolved to keep an eye on the door. When Voldemort returned, Harry had to be alert and ready.

The rug felt a little scratchy against his fingertips. Harry looked around to see if there was a clock anywhere. He hadn’t seen a clock in a long time. Eventually, he spotted a small clock hung up above the desk. It was just past four. Four o’clock in the morning.

Harry tried and failed to assign this fact with any significance. It was just a number. Months without any way of keeping time had dissociated the entire concept of it from his mind.

However, now that Harry _had_ looked at the clock, he could hear it ticking. The sound was soft, but in the silence of the room it might as well have been a church bell ringing in his ears.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

Harry clenched his hand on the carpet. Then he unclenched his hand. He wanted—he wanted to scratch, to pick at his skin. But that wasn’t a good idea. He had to be ready. He had to wait for Voldemort to come back.

The door was solid. The lock was brass. The keyhole was dark. If Harry tried the doorknob it would not budge, because Voldemort would have locked it with magic.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Harry was tired. His body was telling him to lie down again. His hands were pressed against the dark grey carpet. The door was far away, and Voldemort was going to return.

Tick. Tick.

Would Voldemort get mad if he saw Harry had fallen asleep? There had been no torture so far today, but perhaps Voldemort had simply been saving his urges up, waiting for his locket Horcrux to be secured. And now that the locket was in his hands once again, he was going to put it somewhere safe, and then he would come back and carve another lightning bolt into Harry, on his arm, or on his back—

The carpet loomed closer.

Harry blinked. He must have drooped forwards without thinking.

Tick.

If he closed his eyes, he would fall asleep. This was an inescapable fact. If Harry closed his eyes, he would wake to the Cruciatus. If he fell asleep, he would get hurt.

Despite thinking this over and over, Harry’s eyelids began to slide shut.

Tick.

Alright. Harry had given it his best try. Maybe Voldemort would be in a good mood after having gotten one over the Order.

Tick.

Harry rubbed his hand against the carpet one last time. His palms were probably red from all the touching.

Tick.

Harry finally tumbled away into unconsciousness, his body curling up on the floor.

* * *

Something itched. It was itching.

Harry reached up to rub at his face, only to realize that his arm was pinned down. Terror seized him as he twisted in place. He shouldn’t have fallen asleep. It had been a mistake to fall asleep. Harry forced his eyes open so he could see where he was.

He was—he was still on the floor. His face was pressed against the dark grey rug and his arm was pinned underneath his own body weight.

This was unexpected. Harry took a deep breath, focusing on the way his lungs expanded. He probably had an imprint on the side of his head from where his glasses were resting next to his skin. His arm felt numb. It was going to hurt when he regained the feeling in it.

Sitting up, Harry looked for the clock. It was almost half past two in the afternoon. He’d already slept most of the day away. Harry raised his non-numb arm and rubbed at his face. The carpet had been itchy against his scruff. There was also a bit of dried drool on his cheek.

There was another door in the room. A door that likely led to an adjoining bathroom. Harry glanced over at the entrance that he’d come in through. It had been a long time since Harry had been allowed the luxury of a proper bathroom.

Harry shuffled over to the bed and pulled himself up, using the bedframe for support. His numb arm was beginning to prickle with pins and needles. Harry gave it a shake to get the blood moving faster. Then he made his way over to the bathroom door.

The doorknob was cold under his hand. Harry gave it a slow twist. The door clicked and swung open, revealing a small bathroom complete with sink, toilet, and standing shower.

Harry could have cried. Such mundane comforts shouldn’t have been enough to startle him into such strong emotion, but he couldn’t help but welcome the sight of the clean porcelain, the shiny metal. The idea of running water, both hot and cold.

Stumbling forward, Harry reached for the sink.

He flinched away from it in the same motion. There was a mirror above the sink. The reflected image had startled him. All of the utensils and dishware Narcissa had given him had never had reflected surfaces. Harry had forgotten what it was like to look at himself.

The person in the mirror looked like him, but also not like him. Though Narcissa had taken it upon herself to groom him, the style was unfamiliar. The reflection raised a hand to stroke at its face. The hairs on his jaw tickled against his skin. His eyes, green as ever, were framed by dark circles.

With some effort, Harry tugged off the jumper he was wearing. The plain shirt he had on underneath was soaked in sweat stains, presumably from the trauma he’d undergone last night.

Through the thin material, Harry could make out the scarring on his chest.

It would be a bad idea to look. It would be a bad idea.

Harry touched at the hem of his shirt, then forcibly tore his hand away, choosing instead to turn the sink tap on. Cold water gushed out, and Harry let the water pulse over his hand. It was icy. It felt nice. He kept his hand there until it started to feel weird, and then he pulled it away.

Switching hands, Harry pressed his cold hand to the side of his face. That felt nice, too. Using both hands, he splashed some water on his face and neck. The water would help wake him up.

Straightening, Harry looked over to his right. It would be good to take a shower. Then he could have the cold water all over. Or maybe even hot water. Anything other than the bland room temperature Harry had sat with in his cell.

The open door to his left led back to the bedroom; he could be interrupted at any moment. Voldemort had left Harry here in this room. Voldemort had cast spells on the window and told Harry to stay. The window that would lead… somewhere outside. Wherever outside was.

Feeling curious, Harry left the sink running, walking out of the bathroom and over to the window. The black curtains blocked out any daylight that could have filtered through. Harry tried to tug the curtain open, It didn’t move. It felt hard to the touch, like it was a statue masquerading as a curtain.

Harry supposed this made sense. He wasn’t allowed to leave this room, and that included any attempts to escape out the window. It had likely been easier to fix the curtain in place. Metal bars would have looked stupid, and Voldemort didn’t like looking stupid.

Voldemort, who would be coming back soon. Voldemort would be coming back, wouldn’t he? Or he would send Narcissa, or Dobby, or someone else?

Harry’s stomach rumbled—a reminder that he’d been alone for a while now. Someone would come eventually, because Harry still needed to be fed.

Harry walked back into the bathroom, avoiding the mirror. He could take five minutes to shower. It wouldn’t take that long, and he would feel much better, much more _human_ , afterwards. And then he would maybe sit on the bed and wait for someone to show up.

* * *

Voldemort entered his office, his eyes aching. Nagini was curled on top of his desk; she was resting underneath the light of his table lamp. At least someone was enjoying themselves. Voldemort had gotten perhaps four hours of sleep before Avery had woken him to deal with some crisis or another.

Things had piled on from there.

It was now half past two in the afternoon. The ordeal with Potter and Lupin had taken longer than expected, and now his entire schedule had been thrown off.

Nagini did not lift her head as her master approached. After closer inspection, Voldemort noted she was sleeping. He placed a gentle hand on her body, stroking it once before he withdrew. Then he closed his eyes, reaching through his connection with his familiar.

She was dreaming of a forest. Dark skies and hidden prey. Mice and small birds aplenty. Pleasure and contentment. Hunger and power. The wet warm dirt beneath the stomach. Slithering across the ground, over the roots of the trees.

Voldemort pulled back. The nature of his bond with Nagini had not changed. It was his bond with Potter that was different. The first human Horcrux, the vessel that contained a portion of his soul. It followed, then, that the use of Legilimency had proven almost unnecessary. From the moment he had touched Potter’s mind, it had been familiar to him. 

If Potter had not dropped his Occlumency shields, perhaps the result would have been different, but Potter had submitted, had allowed Voldemort to be drawn into his mind like a moth to a flame. Mind and body and soul, almost all of Potter was now within Voldemort’s grasp.

To his surprise, Potter’s mind had been _interesting_.

Voldemort had poured through Potter’s memories. He had gone through Potter’s convoluted mental processes until he had unearthed the muddled logic behind them. Potter cared little for himself; he cared only for the well-being of those around him. Even perfect strangers. It was not a desire borne of false chivalry, or masochistic desires—it was a genuine inclination towards saving others.

After losing his parents, Potter had held to the promise that his demise would save Wizarding Britain. Not only had he taken this to heart, but he had also seen fit to expand this intention to ridiculous proportions. Potter believed his true worth lay in his ability to suffer on the behalf of others.

But Potter had shown great strength last night, mental and magical both. His command of the Imperius had stretched beyond what Voldemort expected. The werewolf had been gone for hours; Potter had been distraught the entire time. Yet the spell had held. And though Potter had failed eventually, succumbing to his exhaustion, Voldemort had fed his own magic into the bond, keeping the Imperius spell alive. 

Voldemort could only wonder where Potter’s true boundaries lay. At what point would it become too much? Where was the line drawn? Potter had shown an unwillingness to Crucio the werewolf, but he had not reacted to Voldemort’s suggestion of the reverse. If pushed, perhaps Potter could be persuaded to use the Cruciatus. Perhaps he could be pushed even more than that.

Further trials would be compelling. Voldemort hoped some of Potter’s other friends would soon be captured so the process could be repeated. In the meantime, other activities could be arranged. Potter might be convinced to his side if the proper induction was employed.

Voldermort would include Potter in select encounters, and Potter would agree to participate out of a desire to minimize the damages he feared Voldemort would cause. It would be the quintessential test. A way for Voldemort to entertain himself outside of ruling Britain; a welcome reprieve from the idiocy. At least Potter’s particular brand of idiocy was useful.

So many others who had been captured had betrayed their cause. Members of Voldemort’s own ranks had given up information to the Order while under duress.

But Potter had gone through torture for strangers. He had held an Unforgivable Curse active for hours in order to save Remus Lupin. One had to wonder just how far Potter would go to do what he believed was the right thing.

They had the time to find out, for certain. Months and years to find out where Potter’s boundaries lay, where Voldemort would have to dig the knife in to make Potter see sense. Voldemort, who had conquered everything else, would succeed at corrupting the prophesied saviour.

The last piece of Potter he would win over would be that damned bleeding heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah, tom. you're getting a little ahead of yourself. harry doesn't like you! he thinks you're creepy! you think it's fun to win people over because you want everyone to like you when really you're just a dumb old man who gets easily obsessed with green-eyed rebels.


	10. Faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry’s stomach gave a flip and a lurch; suddenly, the food did not look as appetizing. He knew that whatever he heard, it would do nothing to settle his anxiety or quiet his shell-shocked mind. It had been hard enough to rinse himself in the shower, and then to sit here on the bed and wait to have food brought to him. To hear more horror would send him flying off the edge of sanity he was clinging to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i wrote the latter half of this chapter a week after i wrote the first half, hope it doesn't show lol

After his shower, Harry had felt much better. The itchy, crawly feeling that had lingered on his skin was gone. His breathing had also eased up, and so he had toweled off and redressed before exiting back to the bedroom.

Hesitantly, Harry sat down on the bed. It was softer than the floor and cushier than his padded room. The contrast was what allowed him to relax as he pulled his shoe-less feet up off of the ground. He was still kind of hungry, but he’d had some water from the tap, and so his throat was less raw than it had been.

A look at the clock on the wall told him it was now nearly three in the afternoon.

Harry shuffled on the bed, anxious. It had been far too long since he’d seen anyone in person, and sleep was not an option because he wasn’t tired. In fact, the cold shower he’d taken only made him more alert.

Deciding it was best not to tempt fate, Harry slid over to the bottom right bedpost, propping himself against it. A semi-comfortable position, as the post was partly covered by the curtain hangings, but also a position that left him upright, just in case. Satisfied that he had done the best he could given his circumstances, Harry allowed his gaze to once more wander the room.

As he had previously noted, the room was sparse in regards to decoration. Aside from the furniture, there was nothing in the room that indicated it belonged to anyone; even the bookshelf was empty. It was just Harry, the furniture, and the curtain that covered the windows.

Harry focused instead on the wallpaper, which was green but had a pattern on it. The pattern was diamond, or diamond-like, and the faint silver lines were complex enough that Harry could continue to look at them, trying to puzzle them out.

The sound of the clock was a constant presence in the background, and Harry tried to block it out. If he got distracted and thought about the minutes that were slipping by, that would inevitably lead to thinking about things he’d rather avoid.

Harry was in the middle of picturing a variant of the wallpaper—the same pattern, but in Gryffindor red and gold—when he caught, on the edge of his peripheral vision, the motion of the door opening.

A split second of panic overtook him as Harry wondered what he ought to do, if he should stand up or not, but then Voldemort was in the room with him, standing a few paces from the bed.

Some distant part of Harry’s brain noted that Voldemort, too, was wearing the same clothes as yesterday, though the rest of him looked the same as ever. Harry ran a hand through his damp hair, uncomfortable.

“Did you sleep well?” asked Voldemort.

It took embarrassingly long for the question to register. Harry nodded, hesitant and apprehensive.

Instead of acknowledging the response, Voldemort snapped his fingers, and Narcissa swept into the room, Dobby at her heels. Harry was relieved at the sight of the silver platter in the elf’s hands. There was a bowl of tomato soup with chunks of meat floating in it, and alongside the bowl was a dish of plain pasta. Placing his feet back upon the floor, Harry accepted the food and balanced the platter on his lap.

“Leave us,” Voldemort said.

Harry kept his gaze fixed on the silver tray, on the sheen of butter he could see coating the pasta. Narcissa’s footsteps faded and the door shut, leaving Harry alone with Voldemort once again.

The dark shape of Voldemort moved, and a shadow fell over Harry’s bare feet. “I have a proposal for you, Potter.”

Harry forced his head up, trying to gauge the seriousness of Voldemort’s words. His hand, where it was currently wrapped around his plastic soup spoon, trembled, and he had to concentrate on holding it still. “What proposal?” he asked.

“I have decided to accept your previous offer.”

Casting his mind back, Harry sorted through his most recent interactions with Voldemort. They had done a lot of negotiating recently, but Harry did not want to revisit his memories of what had occurred last night.

“In exchange for your participation and… _cooperation,_ I may be persuaded to permit you some allowances. This room, as a start.” Voldemort gestured at the walls around them.

The word ‘cooperation’ did not bode well. “And if I say no to cooperating?” Harry asked.

“Then you will be forced to watch, with no say in the matter.”

Harry grit his teeth without thinking and set his spoon down so that Voldemort wouldn’t be able to see the way his hand shook with nerves.

It took a few calming breaths before Harry was able to provide a proper retort. He had to remember that he didn’t really have any say in the matter to begin with. Voldemort would do whatever he wanted, and so the only way to potentially protect people was to play along.

“Fine,” Harry said. “What are the terms?”

“I will present you with a given situation, and you will provide me with a suitable course of action. If I agree, then it will be implemented—if not, then we will discuss further, as we did with the werewolf.”

That wasn’t too awful. Having some input was better than none at all, and this also gave him a chance to learn more about what was going on outside of the manor.

“Is that all?” Harry asked. He had the feeling he must be missing something. To make an agreement with Voldemort was to sign a deal with the devil, and Harry wasn’t sure exactly what Voldemort was getting out of this other than more opportunities to inflict torture.

“If you have small requests, I am inclined to entertain them.” Voldemort stepped over to the empty bedside table, placing his hand upon it as though to inspect it.

Harry’s eyes slid over to the empty bookshelf. “Books?” he asked hopefully. “Like before. And… and it would be nice if the curtains could open,” he added. He missed seeing the sunlight, seeing the sky and the grass and the trees.

“Anything else?”

Harry picked his spoon back up, taking a deliberate sip of his soup so he could have more time to think. Was there anything else he should ask for? Things that were reasonable enough for Voldemort to agree to them? Harry fiddled with the plastic, knowing that he had already let the pause stretch on for too long.

Voldemort picked up on this, too, of course, and he probably knew the reasoning behind it. “We can revisit this later,” he said in a casual tone. “But for now, you will finish your meal while I provide you with some context.”

Context. Harry’s stomach gave a flip and a lurch; suddenly, the food did not look as appetizing. Whatever he heard, it would do nothing to settle his anxiety or quiet his shell-shocked mind. It had been hard enough to rinse himself in the shower, and then to sit here on the bed and wait to have food brought to him. To hear more horror would send him flying off the edge of sanity he was clinging to.

Voldemort’s voice, still calm, broke through the noise of his thoughts. “Relax.”

Harry tried. He tucked his spoon back into the bowl, eyeing the rich red colour, the little specks of green, the floating pieces of beef. Tension crawled along his shoulders, unshakable.

“What do you know about the art of warding?”

This caught Harry off guard. The spoon slipped from his hand entirely, sinking into the bowl. He stared at it for a half-second, then remembered that Voldemort was expecting him to speak.

“Not much,” Harry said honestly. He knew some basics, how to cast charms that could shield and disguise, but Ron had always been the expert in their group when it came to warding. This reminder sent another pang through him, one he did his best to ignore. It would do no good to think about his friends, not here, not now, not with Voldemort mere paces away from him.

“Then I will start from the beginning.”

Voldemort wandlessly summoned the desk chair from across the room. Then his wand did make an appearance, the tip of the yew pressing against the back of the chair, Transfiguring the plain wooden chair into a large, comfortable armchair.

The transition was effortless; such a Transfiguration would have taken Harry at least twenty minutes of solid concentration, if not more. The armchair was green, and the pattern of the cloth matched the wallpaper, which Harry only noticed because he’d spent so much time staring at the walls.

Voldemort settled into the chair, languid and relaxed. Then his gaze fell upon the platter was resting upon Harry’s lap. With another twitch of the yew wand, the plastic spoon emerged from the bowl, glossy and dripping.

Harry took the handle and dried it off with the napkin he’d been provided with.

“Protective enchantments differ from warding,” Voldemort began, his tone instructive, practically neutral. “Enchantments are varied in their uses and their application. They may be used to shield specific areas, or particular targets, such as people or objects. The casting of such charms is both repetitive and draining, rendering this method undesirable for long-term use due to its lack of sustainability.”

As Voldemort continued to talk, Harry finished his soup and moved onto his pasta. Some of this information was not new to him, but it was better to sit and listen, otherwise the topic of conversation would move to something unsafe.

“Warding, however, is much more permanent. But this permanency also requires magic to fuel its power, and this is where we see the subject divide into more specific aspects, such as anchoring…”

* * *

By the time Harry had finished with his meal, Voldemort was still talking. Whatever the reason was for the impromptu lesson, Harry would not be foolish enough to interrupt.

They had progressed to the subject of using wards to set a perimeter. Perimeters were usually done with enchantments because there were typically people assigned to patrolling the line who could keep the charms active. To set wards across such a large area was beyond the ability of most witches and wizards, meaning it was impractical or impossible to design and cast wards strong enough to hold down an entire border.

There were, of course, exceptions to this. Wards cast by different people could be melded together, but this process was complicated and did not work consistently. Magic was fickle, meaning that magic cast by separate individuals did not always work well in conjunction.

Somehow, Harry had found it easy to listen and understand all of this, though that may have been due to a lack of mental stimulation over the past few months.

From time to time, Voldemort had paused and asked a question to check whether or not Harry was paying attention. But Harry had his answer ready, the pieces of logic sliding and locking into place in his brain. He had never been a slouch when it came to schoolwork, but he’d never had a subject come so easily to him before, either. Except Defense, but even then he wasn’t an expert on the theory; he mostly excelled at the practical aspects of it.

Still, Voldemort was visibly pleased that Harry was following along, which was better than whatever the alternative was, so Harry counted himself lucky that his mind was cooperating and taking in the information.

The lesson went on, with Voldemort even summoning a House-Elf to bring them tea things and take away Harry’s used dishes and utensils. Harry sipped at his tea and listened, ignoring his growing apprehension.

“Now we have arrived at the problem,” said Voldemort at last, when it seemed he was done lecturing. “Which is where I require your input.”

Harry perked up despite himself, setting his teacup carefully down on the bedside table. He couldn’t help his curiosity at this point. Voldemort had just delivered an entire crash course on warding, and Harry wanted to know _why_.

Voldemort outlined the issue, which was about setting up a perimeter to prevent the use of Muggle technologies for escaping past the border. One of the main issues was that Muggles would also be using technology in those areas, so the wards or enchantments would need to trigger only when there was the presence of magic involved as well.

“One possibility is to set such a ward only at key points of the border,” Voldemort added. “However, this is not ideal, as it would interfere with the other wards and enchantments set up around it, and it would also trigger for nearby Muggles.”

Harry nodded.

“Failing a solution to this problem,” said Voldemort, “I would invent a new protective enchantment, which would prove to be time-consuming, as I would be creating such a spell and then educating others on its process and usage. Such a spell would, again, result in the capture of pointless Muggles. I am telling you this so you will see that the end result is inevitable, and that a valuable suggestion will lessen either my time or my effort spent on this project. It will also perhaps spare the lives of any Muggles unfortunate enough to trigger the security measures and encounter my less disciplined Death Eaters. Now, do you have any ideas?”  
  


Harry opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. In his eagerness to exercise his mental capacities, he had almost forgotten who he was talking to. “What will you do with the people that the wards catch? The witches and wizards?” Harry asked slowly, hoping that it implied the question of what benefit would he get from helping Voldemort come up with an idea.

“They will be subject to the same treatment as their predecessors. This will merely expedite their capture; it will not worsen their suffering.”

Harry swallowed, then decided to bite the bullet. “But what do I get if I help you? Will you let some of them go without hurting them?”

Silence stretched on. Voldemort’s expression shifted to interest, to a heavy regard that set every scrap of self-preservation left in Harry on fire. Though Voldemort was seated some distance away, Harry was very aware of the presence that Voldemort gave off, the sense of power and danger, the ghostly impressions of dark magic.

Finally, Voldemort spoke, “Contrary to what you may think of me, I can be reasoned with—I am not a barbarian. Every drop of magical blood spilled is a waste.”

“You torture people for _fun_ ,” Harry said, the sentence escaping before he could think better of it.

“Needs must,” said Voldemort, unbothered. “You will note that I do let them live occasionally, when they acquiesce. But as I have told you, resistance must be dealt with.”

“Then deal with it without violence.”

Another pause, and then: “That is not an option.”

Harry closed his eyes, unsurprised by the answer. No matter how much Voldemort claimed to be above pointless bloodshed, he would never relinquish it, and that meant Harry only had one option left: the offer he had once made to save the lives of the Cattermoles.

“Before,” Harry said, his eyes still shut, “you accepted my offer to trade. Myself for the Cattermoles.”

Voldemort made a neutral sound, not quite an agreement.

“Would you be willing to do that again?” Harry asked, hating the way his voice shook with the words. He inhaled through his nose and felt his chest expand, felt the tightness pull across his skin, then added, “You liked it when I offered before, didn’t you?”

When Voldemort still failed to answer, Harry continued, “And they could watch if you want, like the Cattermoles did, but you have to let them live, you can’t kill them—” It was at this point where Harry had to stop, to prevent himself from hyperventilating at the thought of Voldemort’s wand against his skin, carving into the flesh, his body being split open again and again, worse than any pain he’d ever known before.

“Potter.” Harry forced his eyes back open, only to see that Voldemort had stood, had taken a few steps closer. Those dark, dark eyes gazed dispassionately down at where Harry remained on the corner of the unused, unrumpled bed. 

And then there was that nudge again, that press against the inside of his head. Harry repressed a shudder, only it wasn’t a shudder of horror or discomfort, it was—it was—it—

With enormous effort, Harry relaxed, purging the tension from his body, steadying his breathing, and the presence retreated.

“I will permit us to revisit this in the future, when the next capture is made,” Voldemort said at last. “But I will make no guarantees of accepting the offer. I have no particular desire to torture you.”

Harry wasn’t sure if he believed that, not when the scar on his chest still smarted when he moved too quickly. But a ‘maybe’ was better than nothing, especially when he didn’t really have anything else to offer.

“Okay,” Harry said.

“Then we return to the task at hand,” Voldemort said, reseating himself in the armchair. “How to construct the wards, or any alternatives you may have for me.”

His head had started to hurt a little. Harry blinked the sudden exhaustion away and lifted a hand to rub the back of his neck, which was also aching. “I think,” Harry said, “you need to find something that will work on magic users only, and then use that as the starting point. Something like…” Harry tried to recall what his original thought had been, but in the time it had taken for him to have a minor panic attack, he’d lost the idea entirely. “Hold on,” he said, annoyed and embarrassed at himself. “I had something, but I’ve forgotten it. Let me think for a minute.”

“Take your time.”

Harry rubbed his feet on the floor. “Can you repeat what you said before? About the options?”

Voldemort eyed him, scrutinizing. “As of this moment, there are two main alternatives. First, to set up wards only at key points of the perimeter. Second, to create a new protective enchantment—”

“Taboo,” Harry blurted out. “Your name, it’s a Taboo, and it distinguishes magic users from Muggles because it triggers like a spell.”

Surprise flickered for a moment, then vanished, melting into neutrality. “Hmm. That is interesting.” Voldemort shifted, his weight moving to his other foot, which was planted firmly on the ground. “But then, to set a Taboo for the names of so many Muggle things may prove to be impractical.”  
  


“It could be like some kind of sensor,” Harry suggested. “Like a Dark Detector, and then you could anchor it to something, or mass produce it, and have people spread them out along the border.”

“Possible,” said Voldemort. “What you describe does not currently exist, as far as I am aware. But this idea does have some merit, and there is the chance of such an implementation.”

“I can keep thinking,” Harry said quickly. “I can think of something else, too.”

His idea needed to be better. He needed to provide Voldemort with something more substantial so that he could use it to argue for more favours later on. Voldemort seemed to like the Taboo idea, but it would be impractical to set it to be used for a random assortment of words that people would only possibly trigger when they tried to cross the border.

What they needed was something that would distinguish those who were trying to escape from those who just happened to be there, including the Death Eaters.

Harry’s legs started to jitter with nerves, his feet tapping up and down on the floor with a bouncing motion. He knew Voldemort was watching him, but he couldn’t hold still, he was anxious and worried for the unknown fate of those trying to escape Voldemort’s reign. Not to mention he was currently trying to think of a way to _help_ Voldemort in the hopes that Voldemort would decide to be merciful later on.

The _something_ bumped into his mind again. Harry ignored it, used whatever dregs of mental stamina he had left to reinforce his Occlumency shields, and the sensation subsided.

“What if,” Harry started, “you set detectors, or wards or spells, that would only trigger with certain emotions”?”

“Emotions?”

Voldemort thought emotions made you weak. That was what Harry knew to be true, as it was what Albus had told him, had shown him.

“People who are trying to cross are probably afraid, or desperate, or a mix of other things. So you could do some kind of check, maybe, for the physical signs, like heart rate, along with the magical signature…” Harry trailed off, his knowledge of the more intricate aspects of magic failing him.

“This does sound more applicable,” Voldemort said, thoughtful. Then he added, this time making eye contact, “Very well done.”

Harry held back his grimace at the compliment. “So… is that all?” he asked, unsure as to whether or not he wanted the answer to be ‘yes’.

“I should think so.” Voldemort stood. His robes fell into place all on their own, with no gesture made to straighten them. “Expect your regular visits from Narcissa until I require your presence.”

Harry didn’t nod this time, he merely watched as Voldemort used his yew wand to move the armchair back across the room to where the desk sat against the wall. If Voldemort came to fetch him, it would be because someone had been caught, likely because of the idea Harry had come up with.

“Good day, Potter,” Voldemort said, cordial, and then he departed.

Harry sat still for a while longer, then remembered that there had been things he’d asked for. While he didn’t think he’d get any books right away, he _had_ asked for the curtains to be opened.

Staggering over to the window, Harry raised a hand to the black fabric, expecting it to hold firm. But his hand tugged down, and the curtain shifted, jerking aside and exposing the sunlight.

The light was horrifically blinding, despite it being late afternoon. Harry had to keep his gaze fixed on the windowsill at first, then slowly edge his way up as his eyes painfully adjusted. This manor, wherever it was, was fenced in by a lot of tall, creepy trees and, oddly, a very well-kept front lawn.

Harry stared through the window for some time. For long enough that, once the sun finally settled partly below a particularly large pine tree, he could make out his reflection in the glass pane. It was then that he sniffled, wiping a bit at his eyes underneath his glasses. It was probably too much to hope for that the window would open, but even seeing the world outside this room was reward enough.

At the thought of this ‘reward’, Harry’s mouth went sour. He pulled away from the window, tugging the curtain in place and dragging himself back to the middle of the room.

Harry wished the wooden chair was still there, because the bed was too much to think about at the moment, and the armchair was the place where Voldemort had sat. So Harry sat down on the floor instead, on the carpet he had woken up on top of this morning. As he settled down, his back pressed against the side of the mattress.

Dobby would likely be bringing dinner soon, which meant that Harry had little time to wallow in his misery if he wanted to do it privately.

Without much prompting, Harry’s mind drifted to the last time he’d succumbed to such a depression. The presence in his head had pulled him out of it, numbing the negativity and blocking off the bad thoughts.

And so Harry tried to recall the way it had felt, to see if he could replicate the blissful existence of being free of mental trauma without the thing being in his head at all. But to his frustration, whatever it was that had happened to him was not something he could mimic properly. Not only that, but thinking about it for too long reminded him of exactly _who_ the presence in his head had been, which meant he was worse off than when he’d started.

Harry’s stomach churned, but he forced the nausea down, unwilling to lose the food he’d eaten earlier.

Maybe another shower would help rinse off the self-loathing, he thought sardonically. But it wouldn’t fix the horrible thing he had done. It didn’t matter what situation Voldemort had forced him into, or what logic he’d propped up behind his decision; he was still an awful person and he had done an awful thing. People would be captured because of what he had done.

Harry shivered. He had turned and leant into the bedding without realizing, and his face laid against the thick fabric.

He had only agreed to help because he had hoped that Voldemort could be reasoned with. He had agreed because he had hope. Because he had faith, futile though it was.

Words bubbled to the surface of his mind, and Voldemort’s voice was as clear as it had been on the day when Harry had gotten his second curse scar. As the voice continued to echo in his head, it was then that Harry realized that the statement he was hearing had at last come true.

_From this day forward, Potter, you put your faith in me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah don't ask me how long this is gonna be anymore because i'm not sure sdjgklsj i still have a few planned plot points i want to hit and no idea how many words it will take... this chapter is 2k words longer than the previous one... but next chapter will have time skips so let's hope i can start to wrap this up soon :)


	11. Justification

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry kept waiting for the shoe to drop, for the torture to begin anew, but it never happened. Instead, there was only the discomfort of the new routine they had settled into. That, and the frightening realization that he felt safer with the presence in his head than without it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw ptsd symptoms on harry's part, and uhhhhhhhhhhhh tw politics in this chapter.

Despite the fact that Voldemort had given him a new room, Harry found himself spending less time than expected inside of it. Aside from sleeping, eating, and washing up, Harry’s presence was continually requested throughout the rest of the week, and then for weeks afterward as well.

Usually it was Narcissa who was at the door, ready to walk him to Voldemort’s office, but sometimes it was Voldemort himself.

Harry wasn’t sure what to make of it all.

Once deposited in Voldemort’s office, Harry would settle into the comfortable chair that he already begun to think of as ‘his’, and then he would await instructions.

Sometimes there was silence. Voldemort would methodically sort his way through his paperwork, pouring over parchment rolls that he was always careful to hold out of Harry’s line of sight.

But sometimes they would talk. Harry would be asked for his opinions, would be expected to follow along and provide inspiration to the man he had sworn to defeat.

And other people would come and go, though no one lingered or looked at Harry overly much, which Harry was thankful for. It was better for the Death Eaters to treat him as some kind of room decor, because this way he didn’t have to confront the fact that he was actually here to help.

But the Death Eaters did look at him somewhat, their gazes heavy if only for a second too long, and it took a while for Harry to register the emotion for what it was: jealousy. They were jealous that Harry held the Dark Lord’s favour, that he was allowed to sit in on what they viewed as private, important moments. Harry would be hard pressed to explain that Voldemort only wanted him there because he thought Harry’s company was personally amusing.

Still, there _were_ good parts to the arrangement, too. Harry got to argue, albeit hesitantly, and he got to provide alternatives. Alternatives to the horrible things that would have happened without his input. There were people who were now better off because Harry had gotten a chance to speak up. Because Voldemort had given Harry the opportunity to change his mind.

What was especially odd about this new setup was Voldemort always listened to him, even if some of his ideas were shot down. Their conversations were almost… civil.

Though there were still times where Harry’s panic flared, where his chest grew tight and breathing became an impossibility, but Voldemort was there with him, was also there in his mind—a horrible, calming presence amid the storm.

Harry kept waiting for the shoe to drop, for the torture to begin anew, but it never happened. Instead, there was only the discomfort of the new routine they had settled into. That, and the frightening realization that he felt safer with the presence in his head than without it.

* * *

Work continued on the development of the anti-Muggle technology protections. The details of the project had surpassed Harry’s level of knowledge, meaning Harry no longer had any idea what was going on or how any of it worked, but Voldemort seemed insistent on talking him through things anyways, framing concepts over and over until Harry understood them.

It was after one such lesson that Harry was reminded of something Albus had shown him long ago, a memory from the Pensieve that had once sat in the Headmaster’s office at Hogwarts.

“You applied for the Defense position at Hogwarts, before.”

Voldemort paused, quill held over the parchment he was currently writing on. “I did.”

Harry got the impression that the conversation had taken a dangerous turn, but he pressed on, curious and reckless in equal measures, prompting, “But Dippet said no.”

The quill was lowered and set onto the table. “I assume Dumbledore told you this.”

“He showed me.” Harry’s hands twisted together in his lap, but he forced them apart, placing one hand on each of his knees, the better to hold his legs still while he spoke.

“And what other parts of my life did he _show_ you, Potter?”

There was nothing to be gained from hiding the truth, Harry decided. He could use Voldemort’s temper against him, to try and goad answers out of him. “He said that you wanted the position so you could find more of the Founders’ artifacts. So that you could create more Horcruxes. Was he right about that? Or did you actually want to teach?”

Voldemort did not respond right away—he eyed with the feather end of his quill, his forehead creasing. “It was an insult,” Voldemort said eventually, his brow smoothing over. “To refuse me the position. I was the most qualified candidate, the most powerful sorcerer of my generation. I would have been the best Defense professor Hogwarts had seen since the time of its founding, and yet Dumbledore found a way to convince Dippet to turn me down.” 

“Because he knew you were up to no good,” Harry said, sharper than he’d intended to.

The barb failed to provoke an aggressive response, however, because Voldemort continued, “Yes, Dumbledore always suspected I was less… innocent... than I appeared. But he was more a fool to send me away, to reject me. At Hogwarts, I would have been under his watchful eye, at least for a time.”

Then Voldemort reclined in his chair, sighing deeply, as though the memory he had recalled was lacking, somehow. “But this is his folly, Potter, and you would do well to note it—Albus Dumbledore fails to see the consequences of his actions, for in his limited worldview, there is only right and wrong, and things done in the name of righteousness are _always_ justified.”

Harry opened his mouth to argue, but no words came out. Then he tried again, unsticking the sudden lump in his throat, and said, “Albus Dumbledore was a great wizard and a greater man.” 

_And you killed him because of me,_ Harry did not add, but the sentiment hung there anyways, heavy on the tip of his tongue.

“Albus Dumbledore failed you,” Voldemort said, calm and conversational. “He left you to suffer in captivity, knowing full well what I would do to you, because he believed it would fulfill the prophecy.”

“He tried his best.” It was Harry who had failed, not Albus.

Voldemort smiled, humourless. “He would have killed you himself, if he thought it would work out in the end. You were raised for slaughter, raised to die, and do not think for a moment that this never coloured his perception of you.”

Harry said nothing this time, because hadn’t he looked Albus in the eye on that night, on that night Voldemort had killed any hope Harry had of escaping this place? Albus had shaken his head, his last directive, a plea for Harry to not be reckless. And Harry had obeyed, though he’d been nauseous and terrified, only for Albus to die anyways, leaving Harry alone with a monster, a monster that now occupied a sliver of space next to Harry’s soul.

Evidently, Harry’s non-answer was pleasing, because Voldemort retrieved his quill from the desk and resumed his work. All Harry could think of was the nightmare process of becoming a Horcrux. Harry had gotten himself captured, and that was why Albus had died. Albus had died trying to save him, which meant that his death was Harry’s fault.

This fact, though it was one Harry told himself frequently, was now strangely detached, out of reach from the rest of his emotions. Maybe he’d forced it out of his mind enough times that it had severed from his brain entirely, so that he was hemorrhaging pain occasionally, but was also healed up in a twisted type of way.

“You cursed the position. The Defense position,” Harry said, redirecting the conversation in an attempt to also redirect his thoughts. “No one’s lasted longer than a year, even after you took over the Ministry.”

“The curse,” Voldemort said, “will lift only when someone worthy holds the position.”

“Someone like you.”

“Precisely.” The parchment on the table flew into the air, rolling itself up. Voldemort conjured a black ribbon, which slid towards the scroll and tied it shut. 

So the position had to be filled every year because Voldemort’s standards were too insanely high for anyone to meet them. Harry withheld a snort. All the curse did now was create more work for the Hogwarts staff as they tried to pick from the dwindling supply of applicants.

“We are finished for today,” Voldemort said.

Harry squashed down the sudden feeling of disappointment. He would be brought back to his room now, where he would pass the time until their next visit.

* * *

“Up you get, Potter. We have an appointment.”

Harry had been idly reading a book on warding while Voldemort sorted through his usual paperwork, but now he looked up in surprise. They had never gone anywhere other than this office before.

“Where are we going?” Harry asked. He stood up when Voldemort did, and then they walked to the door.

“A meeting,” Voldemort said. “You will not speak unless spoken to, and you will not move from my side unless directed. If someone addresses you, you will look to me, and I will give you leave to respond.”

They exited the office while Harry mulled that over. He didn’t like being muzzled, but he didn’t know what they were going to be talking about, so perhaps it was for the best that he went back to being Voldemort’s silent trophy.

“This way,” said Voldemort, and so Harry began to follow.

The maze of hallways in the manor was still unfamiliar to Harry, mostly because a majority of the hallways looked the same. Quite a few of them even appeared to stretch on forever. 

It was not until they reached a grand staircase that Harry realized just how far they must have walked. Heart pounding, Harry forced himself to ask the question.

“Are we leaving the manor?”

“We are.”

Why hadn’t they just taken the Floo? Or Apparated? Surely in his own manor, Voldemort would be able to pass through the wards without trouble. But Harry didn’t push the matter further, allowing them to lapse back into silence as they descended the stairs and headed for the door.

The front door was huge—tall, dark, and gothic in nature. It loomed over him and Voldemort both as they drew closer, and then the wood shifted, parting, pushing open and revealing the outside world that existed on the other side.

It was, thankfully, late enough in the day that the sun was no longer visible; it had sunken low behind the large conifers that circled the property. Conifers that were covered in a dusting of snow. Most of the grounds around them were clear, likely due to the use of magic, but the snow that covered the rest of their surroundings was surprising.

“What… what month is it?”

Voldemort was also gazing out at the snow, his profile sharp against the backdrop of the pine trees, his alabaster skin only a few shades darker than the snow around them. “January,” he said.

Harry swallowed that down. That meant it had been approximately four months since he had first been captured. It was hard to tell if that number made him feel better or worse about the situation. He had gotten used to living here, had even gotten used to having Narcissa Malfoy and _Voldemort_ for company.

He had been helping Voldemort, had been sitting in an armchair and helping Voldemort make plans. And now they were going somewhere else, to a meeting, where more Death Eaters would look upon him and know that he belonged to Voldemort, that his life was forfeit and his death had been stolen from him.

All of this was his own fault, too, because he had put himself in this position, had convinced himself that he was doing good. Voldemort had let him be useful, had given him something to do, had offered him a comfortable room and pleasant conversation, and Harry had given in because he was weak.

But the snow around them was so white. Untouched and pure, though it was all so distant from where he was standing that perhaps the snow could have been fake, just an illusion, just a bit of magic that had been cast to make the trees around them look the way that trees in January _ought_ to look.

Harry pushed at his glasses, which had slipped slightly down the bridge of his nose. The trees did not look any clearer or more real than they had before.

“Take my arm, and we will depart.”

Harry’s vision was swimming, and it took a second for him to focus long enough on Voldemort’s arm so he could grab onto it. The limb was solid, and Harry could feel the body heat radiating through the fabric of the shirt as they Disapparated.

* * *

When they reappeared, Harry tore his hand away and staggered over to the nearest wall, a searing wave of anxiety wreaking havoc inside his body. He didn’t quite feel like he was going to throw up, but it was a near thing. His legs folded underneath him as he fell awkwardly to the floor.

After a minute of hysterical, irregular breathing, Harry heard Voldemort’s distant voice break through his fugue of disorientation.

“We are in my office at the Ministry. Are you able to stand?”

Harry wasn’t sure if he could. He wasn’t sure of anything, at the moment. There was only him and the wall and the floor. Three things he could feel; three things he was certain existed.

No, not quite. Not _only_ three things.

Harry shut his eyes, felt around the edges of his consciousness and— _oh._ Oh, there it was, and it would be so very easy for Harry to lower his defenses, to let it in, to make the ache and the turmoil fade away to nothingness, to settle into a mindset clear of painful emotions.

A hand touched his shoulder. Harry jerked away from the unexpected pressure, causing his left elbow to collide roughly with the wall, and the hand retreated.

“If you will not accept my assistance, then you _will_ stand on your own, Potter. This is not a request. We have an appointment, and it will not do to be late.”

Harry rubbed at his face, which was too-warm and vaguely damp.

_A moment, please,_ he thought, directing the statement outward.

They waited together, and then, after a brief period of time had passed, Harry got up.

“Okay,” he said. He had to exert some effort so that the word rose above a whisper.

Voldemort seized him by the arm, the grip more gentle than Harry expected, and steered them towards the door. “You will follow by my side, a step behind.”

As they passed through the door frame, Harry’s arm was released, and Harry pitched forward, only narrowly avoiding a collision with Voldemort’s back.

“How far?” Harry asked as he straightened and began to walk.

“Not very. Now be silent.”

Harry shut his mouth as they rounded a corner. Two Ministry workers visibly paused upon seeing them, and Harry averted his eyes and focused on keeping his feet steady beneath him. Focused on trailing behind Voldemort. Harry wasn’t sure when he’d last been here at the Ministry. As a child, maybe. Back when his dad had worked here, undercover for the Order, as an Auror.

Most of the Ministry workers moved aside as Harry and Voldemort strode down the corridor towards the elevators, though some of them did pause to grovel with exaggerated bowing and scraping.

And they watched Harry, too, with eyes wide with shock rather than fear.

Harry could imagine what they were seeing: a young man, who some might have recognized as Harry Potter, a member of the terrorist group known as the Order of the Phoenix, walking by the Dark Lord’s side. 

Eventually, he and Voldemort entered a lift, and no one else was brave enough to follow them.

The lift was silent. No tinkling music, only the soft whirring of the lift moving through the levels, and Harry felt safe enough to ask another question.

“What is this meeting about?”

“There has been a fresh outbreak of dragon pox in the community.” Voldemort’s voice was devoid of inflection, but Harry noted his jaw had gone tense, the motion was slight that it was barely noticeable.

Harry waited for elaboration, but Voldemort said nothing. Harry tried to think of what must have happened. The worst recorded outbreak of dragon pox had taken the lives of many people, mostly Purebloods, and had resulted in the first magical vaccination—a vaccination that had been developed through both magic and Muggle sciences, then combined with a magical delivery system.

The lift chimed, signalling that they arrived at level ten, which was the level reserved for courtrooms and Ministry meetings.

“After you,” said Voldemort.

Harry stepped out of the elevator, not sure what to expect. They continued walking, down the hall full of doors that lead to the Ministry courtrooms. The end of the hall split into a T-shaped junction, where they turned left. Harry felt his heart rate pick up with each door they passed. He wished that they would arrive at their destination already.

Of course, as soon as he’d thought that, Voldemort stopped in front of a door, pushing it open and gesturing for Harry to enter behind him.

Inside was a medium-sized room with a high, domed ceiling and no windows. Instead, the room was lit with oil lamps built into the walls, lamps that shone down upon the large table that took up most of the floor space.

Seated at the table were Thicknesse, Yaxley, Crouch Jr., Malfoy Senior, a man Harry didn’t recognize, and Theodore Nott, who Harry had attended Hogwarts with. All six of them had stood when Voldemort had entered the room.

There was also a singular chair at the far end of the table—one obviously reserved for Voldemort. Crouch Jr., the Senior Undersecretary, was seated directly to the Dark Lord’s right, but the seat on the left side was empty.

With a lurch, Harry realized that this chair must have been saved for _him_.

Voldemort took his place at the head of the table, and then everyone looked expectantly at Harry.

Hastily, his face uncomfortably warm, Harry sat down. He didn’t want to be here, but he didn’t have a choice. Even Nott was staring at him like he was a zoo exhibit, but there was no escape now, not with Voldemort seated mere inches away from him.

“My Lord.” Crouch Jr. inclined his head in a gesture of respect, pushing over a single sheet of parchment. “Developments for the vaccination are currently progressing well. We expect to see our first trials by the end of this month, and a full treatment to be completed some time near the end of February.”

“Well done.” Voldemort retrieved the page, scanning it briefly. “Do you foresee any major complications that could disrupt this projected timeline?”

“An analysis was conducted, my Lord, but I do believe that our main obstacle lies with the more… _traditional_ factions of the population.”

“Hmm.”

No one spoke. They were likely afraid of disrupting Voldemort’s thought process. Harry shifted in his seat, anxious about what part he would be expected to play in all this.

“If I may make a suggestion, my Lord.” It was Lucius Malfoy who spoke, his voice overly familiar to Harry, who had dealt with him a few times before.

Voldemort inclined his head in Malfoy’s direction. “Yes, Lucius?”

“Perhaps providing some incentives to the population would suffice? As an encouragement to accept the vaccination.”

“But who is going to fund these ‘incentives’, Malfoy? You?” Yaxley retorted. “Because an incentive large enough to draw the eyes of all the noble houses won’t be coming out of the Ministry coiffers. There isn’t enough gold in any vault for that kind of funding.”

Lucius sneered, but he did not offer a rejoinder.

“Other ideas?” Voldemort asked into the lull, his red eyes gazing solemnly around the gathered Death Eaters.

“We could release a new marketing campaign,” said Nott, hesitant. “Change the public’s perspective about the treatment.”

The final man, the one Harry did not know, shook his head. “They will not accept that. No amount of propaganda will convince them to put their faith in what they see as ‘Muggle technology’. You’re too young to know this, Nott, as it was before your time, but that original wave of dragon pox wiped out _entire branches_ of pureblood witches and wizards, purely because they were too stubborn to take the vaccination. If we let it grow to that point again, there’ll be widespread panic on our hands.”

“People are already dying, Macmillan,” Thicknesse said bluntly. “It may be contained for now, but sooner or later, we _will_ see panic if this treatment is not accepted.”

“Then have it be mandatory,” said Malfoy. “All students who attend Hogwarts must receive the treatment, for a start.”

“Yes, that will go over very well,” Macmillan said, snorting. “Since when have any traditionalists taken well to being told what to do?”

“If you’re just here to be _negative_ —” started Yaxley.

“I’m being realistic. There’s a difference.”

Voldemort was frowning, his nostrils flaring as he watched his underlings bicker, his mood darkening sufficiently enough that Crouch Jr. took notice and exchanged a glance with Nott, who had been copying down meeting minutes so far but was now looking at the Dark Lord with no small amount of apprehension.

“What if,” Harry said loudly, so that he could be heard above all the noise. “What if you just didn’t ask them?”

“You are out of turn, Potter,” said Yaxley, his mouth twisting as he sneered. “This is a conversation amongst the Dark Lord’s finest, and you—”

“Potter,” began Voldemort, in cool, sibilant tones that cut Yaxley off better than any harsh insult would have, “has my leave to speak.”

Harry sat up a bit, summoning his courage from whatever scraps remained of it, and said, “You already said that they won’t want it no matter what, and that forcing them to take it will only cause more problems. So what if—if you could just find a way to make them take it without them _realizing_ —maybe put it in the water supply, because it won’t do anything to the Muggles, who can’t catch dragon pox anyways—”

Harry cut himself off because it seemed to him that he was now rambling, and if his idea was stupid he’d just made an idiot out of himself, and Voldemort would be mad that he’d originally spoken without permission.

“If it’s serious, then it shouldn’t matter if they know what they’re taking or not,” Harry finished. “It’s… it’s for their own good.”

A hush fell across the table, and then—

Voldemort laughed. A rich, _human_ sound that echoed softly around the room. The change in emotion was visible on his face, which now appeared less severe than before, and the tension in the room melted away, leaving only the faint hint of a smile on the Dark Lord’s lips.

“For their own good,” Voldemort murmured, approval swelling the words. “You do take your lessons well, don’t you, Potter? The wrong things… for the _right_ reasons. And all is justified, in the end. Perhaps Dumbledore had his use after all.”

For the second time, Voldemort’s hand settled upon Harry’s shoulder.

But Harry knew better than to pull away this time, not in front of the Death Eaters, and so he was motionless beneath the hand, inert as the fingers squeezed gently, silent as Voldemort watched him, knowing that the touch was meant as both an acknowledgement and an honour.

If this was his reward, then it was also his punishment, and he would bear it as he had bore everything else—he would carry it until he could carry no more.

“I think,” Voldemort said, “you will all be seeing Potter more often.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't want to say this will hit novel length (~50k) but. maybe it will.
> 
> hope this chapter was suitably intriguing... we are headed into wrapping up this section/arc and then there will be three(?) more major events before we reach the end... which i have had planned since the start, and ngl i am so pumped to get there.


	12. Appearances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was occasions like this that reminded Harry that Voldemort was handsome, and dangerously so, mostly because Harry felt disastrously underdressed and unprepared to stand next to a man who emanated power and regality wherever he walked.

Wake up, wash up, change clothes, wait for Voldemort.

Such was the new state of Harry’s life. Long gone were the days of idleness and stagnation—days where Harry had alternated between wanting to end it all and wanting desperately for something, anything, to happen to him. Now he trailed Voldemort all day like a shadow, like a particularly interesting pet that could do flips for treats.

Still, Harry couldn’t bring himself to dislike the change of pace. It had purpose, and though he often hated himself for thinking it, it was better than nothing.

Many of the problems he helped with didn’t even have to do with hurting people. Sometimes it was a matter of policy, or creative problem solving, and other times it was simply an issue that required an outsider’s perspective, or a Muggle-based perspective, both of which Harry was able to provide.

What was satisfying, however, was when Voldemort got people, usually Death Eaters, to shut up so that Harry could speak. It meant that most of them didn’t like him very much, but Harry hadn’t expected them to, so it wasn’t a great loss.

The only person that Harry got to actually talk to—he didn’t count his little chats with Voldemort and his Death Eaters as proper conversation—was Narcissa, who, for some reason, was still assigned to regular visits with him.

“You’ve caused quite the stir.”

It was late evening, and Narcissa was occupying the armchair in which Voldemort usually sat, wandlessly embroidering a handkerchief while she spoke. Harry was sat on another, matching armchair by the window.

The second armchair was a more recent addition to the room, though Harry noted Voldemort had made this chair a little closer to the ground, likely to accommodate for Harry’s shorter stature. Or maybe Voldemort just wanted his chair to be the tallest, Harry thought sardonically.

Harry shrugged. “I guess.”

“People talk.” Narcissa’s legs uncrossed and recrossed before she continued, “They talk, and they wonder: what, exactly, is your relationship with the Dark Lord?”

Relationship? Harry kept quiet, hoping she would give him a better idea of what answer she was expecting, and what answer he could possibly be allowed to give.

“If he has told you not to speak…” Narcissa raised a perfectly arched brow at him, and her needlepoint paused mid stitch. “Then I have no place in asking. But I would urge you to choose your allies carefully. The Dark Lord may protect you, but there are those who will still seek to make your life difficult.”

_Allies like you?_ Harry thought.

It was clear now, what she wanted. She saw that Voldemort was interested in him, and she wanted to leverage that favour for herself and her family.

Harry knew that the latest additions to his wardrobe—fine clothes of quality fabrics that were fit for a pureblood of a noble house—had likely been chosen by her. And Narcissa had been decent to him, though she was complicit in this entire mess, making her partly responsible for what had happened to him.

The Slytherin in him was screaming that he must take advantage of this, that Narcissa Malfoy was trusted by Voldemort and he could twist this to his _own_ advantage. He didn’t need to be a pawn anymore because Voldemort had given him power and favour, and those were things he could _use_.

The rest of him, however, was vehemently protesting what it viewed as futility. Aiding Voldemort was one thing. Playing a game of loyalties and favours against Slytherins older and more experienced than he was would surely not end well.

“I don’t know what it is,” Harry said honestly. “I just do what he tells me.”

Narcissa made a quiet noise of acknowledgement, her wandless embroidery resuming its motion. “I suppose it would be beyond the both of us to presume his intentions.”

“Right.” Harry nodded like he knew what they were presuming. “His intentions.”

Narcissa switched legs again, shifting her weight as she leant her elbow on the right armrest. “How would you feel about a haircut?”

Harry’s hand lifted to scrub through his hair, which was now curling past his jawline. “I dunno, really. It doesn’t bother me much since I’m indoors all the time. I could tie it back, if that makes it better.”

“It is not a matter of practicality, Potter.”

Narcissa stood up, and her embroidery moved aside with little gesture on her part. Harry went still as she approached, feeling self-conscious beneath her sudden, critical eye. Her hand brushed his bangs aside, and the cool air of the room touched his exposed forehead, making him shiver.

“You do have a handsome profile. Not unlike my Draco. A bit more square around the jaw—but very lovely eyes, those should be visible—”

All at once, Harry was reminded of the other women in his life who had once fussed over him like this. His mum, for one. And Hermione, for another, though her fussing was definitely more of the practical kind. And so while Narcissa continued to talk about style and cut, Harry let his mind wander, despite the fact that doing so would hurt later, when he was alone and had come to his senses.

Narcissa’s hand moved to his face, her fingertips placed against his cheekbone. “Hold still.”

Harry remained motionless as she conjured a cloth to drape over his shoulders, as a pair of scissors materialized in the air, as the blade moved near his head, trimming the hair that was there. He kept quiet while she worked, tilting his head as directed, and when she was done, she stepped back to survey him again. His head still felt a bit damp, but then Narcissa aimed her wand at him and the dampness faded away.

“There, I feel we’ve improved upon it very much. Though it is unfortunate that the Dark Lord would never permit my stylist to be brought in. She would have been able to layer it more precisely.”

Narcissa reapproached, touching his forearm, and Harry obligingly pivoted so she could get a better look. “Probably he wouldn’t,” Harry agreed, just for the sake of saying something.

With a sigh, Narcissa withdrew again and conjured a mirror, which she held up. The angle was wrong at first, and Harry was momentarily blinded by the slight glare, but then his eyes focused, and he saw… himself.

Though he had grown used to the mirror in the bathroom, seeing himself in the ivory-backed handheld that Narcissa had conjured was an entirely new experience. This was the closest he would ever get to seeing himself through someone else’s eyes.

Dark black hair, now trimmed into a more recognizable style. Not unlike how he’d previously worn it, with the sides a little shorter than the top, only usually Harry liked his bangs longer, the better to hide his scar with. But of course Narcissa had left his forehead exposed, styling his hair in such a way that the scar was now plainly visible no matter which way he turned his head.

“How do you like it?”

Harry swallowed around the horrid sinking feeling in his stomach and said, “It looks perfect, thank you.”

Narcissa smiled at him, a slight lift of the corners of her mouth that signified approval. “I’m glad to hear that.”

Voldemort would like it. To see the scar that marred Harry’s forehead more easily, to know that a matching scar existed further below, on his chest.

“I think he’ll like it,” Harry said, adding emphasis to the words as he looked up at her.

Her lips quirked, the sides of her mouth spreading. “I see. I hope he will.”

* * *

Harry did not see Voldemort again until the next day, when he was woken up to a loud, sharp knock at his door.

This did not happen often. Usually Harry woke early and had time to make himself presentable before anyone came to see him. Harry scrambled out of bed, sparing a glance at the clock on the wall. Four in the morning.

“Just a minute!” Harry called, staggering over to his wardrobe. Then he realized he’d left his glasses on the nightstand, and he cursed himself as he opened the door to the wardrobe and grabbed a set of robes at random, pulling them on.

Behind him, the door opened. “Potter—”

“I said just a minute,” Harry replied, annoyed now, and he whirled around to see that Voldemort had stepped into the room.

Fully dressed in inky-black robes that flattered, a matching cloak draped over his shoulders. It was occasions like this that reminded Harry that Voldemort was handsome, and dangerously so, mostly because Harry felt disastrously underdressed and unprepared to stand next to a man who emanated power and regality wherever he walked.

“You have five minutes,” Voldemort said coldly, and the sharp look in his gaze brooked no arguments.

Harry glowered, then ran back over to the nightstand for his glasses, then ran over to the bathroom, splashing his face with water and giving his teeth a quick brush.

When he re-entered the bedroom, he saw that Voldemort had laid out a new set of robes on the bed.

Harry reached for the clothes, not bothering to ask if they were for him or not, then stomped back into the bathroom to change, making a point to slam the door behind him. The robes in his hands were heavy, plum-coloured, and the fabric was thicker than normal. With a start, Harry registered the meaning of the colour. These robes were for use in the Wizengamot. Turning them over revealed the silver letter ‘W’ that was embossed on the breast pocket.

Knowing that to linger would only irritate Voldemort further, Harry swapped his current robes for the new ones and left the old ones draped on the bathroom counter.

“Shoes and socks, then we can go,” Harry said as he exited the bathroom. 

Then there was another uncomfortable moment as Harry hopped around, pulling things onto his feet, but then it was done, and he was ready to leave.

“Take my arm,” said Voldemort.

Harry did so immediately, without any conscious thought, and then they were pulled out of the room and into the Ministry.

* * *

Voldemort’s office swam into view. Dark walls and mahogany furniture. The chair that Harry frequently sat in. But because Harry was now used to coming here, he found his footing easily, releasing Voldemort’s arm and stepping away.

Despite the disorientation of the sudden Apparition, Voldemort was already exiting the room, his robes and cloak billowing behind him, and Harry had to hurry to catch up. 

It was borderline ludicrous, now that Harry stopped to think about it. Here he was, chasing at Voldemort’s heels because the alternative was going back to the padded cell in the basement of the manor.

“What’s going on?” Harry asked.

“Emergency Wizengamot meeting,” Voldemort snapped. “Do keep up, Potter. The robes are not for decoration.”

Harry held his tongue. He had yet to wake up properly, and it wouldn’t be smart to provoke Voldemort's ire when he was already in a bad mood.

They sped down the halls, not quite at a run, until they reached the lifts, where Voldemort scared off the singular witch standing by the lift that had just freed up, leaving Harry to mutter an apology as they passed by.

The doors to the lift closed, and it was then that Voldemort spoke again.

“They are voting on the final development of the dragon pox vaccine, which is set to begin its first human trial by the end of this week.”

“They don’t think it’s ready for human trials?” Harry asked, after a brief pause.

“They do not wish to proceed at all.”

“But—” Harry started, only then Voldemort turned to face him, expression absolutely murderous, and so Harry shut his mouth, deciding that he would try to think a little harder before he spoke.

If there were members of the Wizengamot that didn’t want the development to continue, then they would be traditionalists. Purebloods who disliked the application of Muggle technology, who wanted a magical remedy instead.

If Voldemort was this angry, then there must be significant opposition in the Wizengamot, especially if they were calling for a meeting.

Apparently some prejudices were too deep-rooted to be overcome.

“How close is the vote going to be?” Harry asked.

The lift had already stopped, but Voldemort withdrew his wand, waving it once, and the doors remained shut.

Then Voldemort looked over, his dark eyes wielding all the force of a Cruciatus as they bore down upon Harry. “You hold both your father’s seat and the seat of your late godfather, Sirius Black,” said Voldemort. “Two votes, Potter. You _will_ be utilizing your right to vote, as honoured by tradition, as dictated by the blood that flows through your veins. I will not entertain this farce of a session, and I will make an example of your vote, if necessary. You may rest assured that those who go against me will be punished severely for the disrespect they have offered today.”

Harry nodded, unsure of what else to say.

“Good. You will not speak, and you will vote as I indicate. You and yours belong to _me._ Is that understood?”

“Yes,” Harry said, but he wondered if the stuffy Purebloods would be _less_ inclined to vote for Voldemort’s wishes if they saw that Harry Potter was voting along with them.

* * *

The courtroom for the emergency session was vast, larger than any such room Harry had ever been in. There was an overflow of people in plum robes all over, most of them looking worse for wear given the early hour.

Voldemort’s entourage was also there, waiting by the dais.

Crouch Jr. was in robes of black, and Nott was standing just behind him, looking nervous.

Harry stifled a yawn as he followed Voldemort over, and he only vaguely listened as they discussed the particulars of who was to blame for all this, who had given up information, and what the plan was for them to do now.

Yaxley glanced over at Harry once, but Voldemort called him back to attention, and so Harry was allowed to let his gaze wander over the Wizengamot members that were gathered in their numerous pews. There were, perhaps, sixty or so people all together in this enormous room.

“We’re starting in ten minutes.”

The soft voice startled Harry. Nott had stepped a little closer to speak. He was dressed in plain navy robes, not plum ones, meaning he was going to be kicked out whenever this thing finally began.

“Thanks,” Harry said awkwardly.

Nott looked from Harry’s shoes—plain black sneakers—to his head, which was probably more comparable to a bird’s nest at the moment. “Glad to have you here,” Nott said eventually. Then he added, “My grandfather died during the last wave of dragon pox.”

Harry shifted, ill at ease. He’d never spoken with Nott at Hogwarts, and it was odd to do so now. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Just don’t let this outbreak get worse,” Nott said. His eyes flickered over to Voldemort, then his brows tilted into an expression of contemplation. “Our Lord is doing his best, but he can’t be everywhere at once.”

The implications of this statement— _our_ _lord_ —did not manage to fully sink into Harry’s mind, because Voldemort gestured with his hand, tugging, and Harry felt an invisible jerk on his arm.

“Sorry, got to go,” Harry said hastily, and he left Nott standing there as he went to rejoin Voldemort’s side.

“Having fun?” Though the words were innocuous, Harry couldn’t tell if the tone was meant to be sarcastic or not. Voldemort’s face had gone strangely impassive.

“Um,” Harry said. “Where should I be sitting?”

Voldemort sized up his minions, scrutinizing. “You will be with Lucius, I suppose.”

“It is an honour, my Lord,” Lucius said. “With me, Potter.”

It was the first time Harry had been left in the company of anyone other than Narcissa. Harry trailed after Malfoy, moving up the stairs to one of the pews, then down and around some of the people who were already seated.

“The Malfoys and the Blacks have a long standing relationship of mutual benefit,” Malfoy said, once they had apparently found their correct seats.

Harry sat himself down. There was a gap to his left, which was good, but Malfoy was seated directly on his right, which was less than appealing. “Is that so?” Harry asked, distracted as the meeting was called to order.

“Yes. Narcissa and I have discussed the continuation of such an arrangement, if you are amenable—”

“Sorry,” Harry interjected, “but shouldn’t I be paying attention?”

“This session will go one way or the other, Potter. Our duty today is to vote the way our Lord wishes us to.”

Harry scanned the rows of people a second time. “My dad said there are over a hundred members of the Wizengamot.”

That statement gave Lucius pause. “There used to be.”

“Before Voldemort,” Harry said flatly. “Before you lot drove out everyone who disagreed with you.”

“Not here, Potter, are you mad?” Malfoy hissed. “The Dark Lord may choose to protect you, but you would be wise to hold your tongue here, of all places, in the midst of so many enemies.”

Harry opened his mouth to retort, but he was somehow distracted by the front of the courtroom where Voldemort was seated, where Voldemort was staring at him from. Next to Voldemort, Yaxley was in the midst of reading off a roll of parchment.

“—and we are joined today by Harry James Potter, who has claimed seats on behalf of House Black and House Potter.”

“Stand and bow to the Wizengamot,” Malfoy muttered.

Harry hastily followed the directive, ignoring the stares and the whispers that preceded him as he sat back down.

“Good enough,” Malfoy said in an undertone. “You’re still young. They won’t expect you to do anything other than vote.”

Harry technically wasn’t allowed to do anything else. Voldemort had told him not to speak. Given the severity of the issue at hand and his inexperience with the Wizengamot, Harry was inclined to obey. However, the sudden attention reminded Harry of something else.

“Isn’t it a bit weird for me to be here?” Harry asked in a whisper. “Just last year I was a fugitive.”

“I was under the impression you wished to pay attention.”

Harry shrugged.

“To answer your question: no, it is not. Our Lord is merciful to those who choose to align themselves with the right side.”

Harry didn’t respond to this, mostly because he didn’t agree with it. But Malfoy seemed to draw his own conclusions from Harry’s expression, because he added, “You have purity in your veins and gold in your vaults, Potter. There is little they will not forgive, so long as you behave.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was supposed to end with a different scene, but i guess no one should be surprised by now that i'm writing more than i planned to lol
> 
> thanks for readingggg. next chapter will... hopefully end on the cliffhanger i had planned originally?


	13. Response

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was, Harry thought, the difference between the Dark Lord Voldemort and the Minister for Magic Voldemort. Here the charm was also a warning, but only to those who knew exactly the kind of man Voldemort truly was. To the rest, this was a politician. A man who won. They might never see the poison that lurked beneath, so long as there was no reason for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahoy, we wrap up whatever this arc is called. politics and advisory stuff, etc. moving closer to the end game with this chapter...
> 
> i actually really like how this chapter turned out, too. so hopefully it's a good one for you readers as well!
> 
> decided to yeet this out at midnight PST soooo enjoy lol.

Wizengamot proceedings were _long._ It was a wonder anyone was able to pay any attention at all given the early hour, and the constant, monotonous drone of Yaxley’s voice.

Harry had subtly tried to prop his chin up on his elbow, a move that had drawn Malfoy’s dubious gaze. But Harry didn’t much care what Malfoy thought of him. Right now, his goal was to stay awake, vote however Voldemort indicated him to vote, and then—hopefully—head back to Voldemort’s manor for a nap.

A sensible voice in the back of his head told him that it was unlikely things would be resolved so quickly, and that even if the vote succeeded, Voldemort would be here for hours afterward, dealing with the results, but Harry told that part of himself to shut the hell up.

“Has he told you which way to vote?” Harry asked Malfoy, unable to help his curiosity.

“I will vote whichever way he does,” Malfoy replied, sanctimonious in the way that only those who are utterly assured with themselves can be.

And so Harry could not stop the next question that passed his lips. “Don’t you have your own opinions?”

Malfoy’s own lip curled, and he actually pivoted in his seat, his head angling to the left so as to stare at Harry more directly. “My own father passed to dragon pox, Potter. I am well informed of the situation, and of the consequences should this endeavour fail. I have placed my faith in the Dark Lord, knowing that he not only understands magic beyond the comprehension of commonplace witches and wizards, but also the techniques and methods required to ensure our universal survival.”

The Malfoys had never struck Harry as the type to accept Muggle technology or concepts. “But you hate Muggles,” Harry protested.

“Everything has its place,” Malfoy said. “While I hold no great fondness for Muggles, I would be foolish not to use them and their means to my own advantage.”

It was then that Yaxley finished with whatever it was he had been talking about, and the scroll he’d been holding rolled itself up. Some people applauded politely in response, but Harry kept his hands together on his lap. Malfoy did clap, a little tap-tap of his palms, his face composed into a careful image of boredom.

Then Voldemort stood, and a hush fell over the courtroom. In his formal robes, Voldemort cut the fine figure of a commanding leader—of a Lord.

Despite himself, Harry sat up. He had never been privy to one of Voldemort’s speeches before. His dad had always kept him away from the Ministry, and Voldemort had never visited Hogwarts during Harry’s brief time there. All the details Harry knew of Voldemort’s rise to power had been from the limited viewpoint of Albus Dumbledore’s Pensieve. Everything else was hearsay, stories of a talented orator, of a Slytherin with a silver tongue.

Would Voldemort’s words be as captivating as the many tales had told? Harry wanted to know.

“Lords and Ladies of the Wizengamot,” began Voldemort, in dulcet tones of warm welcome, a peaceful expression of benevolence gracing his features.

This was, Harry thought, the difference between the Dark Lord Voldemort and the Minister for Magic Voldemort. Here, the charm was also a warning, but only to those who knew exactly the kind of man Voldemort truly was. To the rest, this was a politician. A man who won. They might never see the poison that lurked beneath so long as there was no reason for it.

Harry took a second to check in on the rest of the room. People were listening. Everyone was listening. The hush had morphed into an atmosphere of rapt attention, even amongst the Purebloods that Crouch Jr. had indicated as being ‘against’ the vaccine. And Harry was listening, too, as Voldemort outlined both the problem and the solution, using turns of phrase that were simple, yet so profound that Harry felt it would be impossible for anyone to remain unconvinced.

Surely in the face of possible death, people would make the right choice?

When Voldemort at last reseated himself there was applause, much louder than it had been for Yaxley, and then Yaxley invited those in the room to respond to the points that Voldemort had made.

There was a beat of silence, and then a man on the opposite side of the room stood and cleared his throat.

Harry only half-listened to the response, knowing it was mostly bigoted nonsense. How much longer could this go on for? Would people continue to argue against Voldemort? Voldemort’s opening statement had been designed to charm, not to threaten, but perhaps Voldemort was saving his anger for later.

Suddenly exhausted, Harry leant back, trying to stay awake. The other man, apparently named Jugson, was still talking. Harry bit back a yawn when the rejoinder was done, but then someone _else_ stood up, and Harry resigned himself to a long, long morning full of politics, posturing, and layered meanings.

* * *

In the end, the vote had swung majorly in favour of proceeding with the development.

Harry felt oddly relieved that his two votes had not been needed after all. Though he agreed, in general, with what Voldemort’s Ministry was trying to accomplish, it felt… _wrong_ … to agree with them on anything at all, let alone to be responsible for placing the deciding vote.

The responsibility to swing the vote had fallen to Voldemort, who had handled the burden with such poise that Harry thought no one leaving the courtroom today would be very upset with how the outcome had gone.

The vaccine, once developed, would be optional for all. On the surface, at least. Harry had no doubt that his suggestion of dispensing it amongst the general public without their knowledge would be implemented as soon as the vaccine was confirmed to work.

As the room at last began to clear, Malfoy remained seated, and so Harry did the same. The plum robes filtered from the courtroom in dribs and drabs, most of them gossiping with each other over the turn of events. Once most of the people were gone, Malfoy stood and gestured for Harry to follow.

They descended from the benches and made their way over to the dias. Voldemort was still at the podium, radiating an aura of contentment. He had gotten his way, had swung the vote. Even the Death Eaters surrounding him looked happy.

Now that he was closer, Harry could also make out the intricate details carved into the Ministry emblem on the dias. The words ‘magic is might’ looped around and around on the outer rim.

“A good day, today,” said Malfoy, bending at the waist to bow to his master. “An excellent victory. Thank you, my Lord.”

Voldemort graced his servant with a wide smile. “You are most welcome, Lucius. I trust Potter has caused you no trouble?”

Lucius placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder, overly-familiar, and then he, too, smiled. “A non-issue, my Lord. Potter and I passed the time well.”

Harry kept his own expression placid, though he was sure Voldemort would see right through it. “It was an interesting debate,” Harry said, thinking that this was as neutral of a response as he could offer while still being truthful.

Voldemort himself had set his foot down firmly on the line of neutrality, neither intimating that he preferred the vaccine, nor implying that he did not. It was, Harry thought, such a maneuver that served to keep both sides of the issue supportive of him. As the debate had progressed, the matter had whittled down to the issue of cost, of funding the vaccine, to which Crouch Jr. had produced a long list of private donors who were willing to fund the project, and no matter who actually wanted to take the treatment once it was done, it would be available for free, no questions asked.

“I will be retiring to my office to handle the results of today’s decision,” Voldemort said, drawing Harry’s attention back to the present conversation. “I do not wish to be disturbed.”

Then there was much bowing and scraping, followed by Voldemort crooking a finger for Harry to accompany him. Harry shot a glance over his shoulder at the Death Eaters. While most of them had already returned their focus to other tasks, both Malfoy and Nott were staring after him.

Two people who were glad he had been here.

Harry turned away from them and looked at Voldemort instead. Voldemort’s face was still set into the hard lines of the mask that made up his public persona, though the pleasure leftover from his success had softened the edges somewhat. Then Voldemort’s eyes met his, a brow raising in question. Harry dropped his line of sight to the floor, embarrassed, and they continued to walk in silence.

* * *

The trek back to Voldemort’s office had been mostly uncomfortable. Now that it was properly morning, more people were arriving, meaning that both Harry and Voldemort had been on the receiving end of a lot of unwanted attention. By the time they finally arrived at their destination, Harry felt that even Voldemort was likely glad for some privacy.

The door shut behind them both, and then Voldemort cast a number of spells upon the door, sealing them in.

Harry slipped over to his regular chair and sat down, hopeful that Voldemort would settle into some paperwork, leaving Harry to close his eyes and sleep.

“What did you think?” Voldemort was now seated behind his desk, feet propped up carelessly on the tabletop, long legs encased in dark trousers stretched out into the air.

Harry licked his lips, which were dry from having gone all morning without so much as a drop of water. “I’m surprised,” Harry said. “I dunno what I expected, but I’m surprised you managed to convince them all so easily.”

“Your presence was a contingency,” Voldemort said. “I had the situation well in hand.”

Voldemort’s borderline temper tantrum this morning spoke differently. His irritation had been clear to Harry, who was now used to the varying degrees of ‘bad mood’ that Voldemort ran through over the course of a particularly trying day. Though Harry supposed that maybe Voldemort had just been annoyed by the audacity of the Wizengamot members who had tried to derail his plans. Waking up at four in the morning would have made things worse. Even now, Harry had to work hard to stay awake and pay attention to the conversation.

“What will you do now?” Harry asked. “To the people who disobeyed?”

“They will find their misfortunes sooner or later.” Voldemort conjured two glasses and filled them with water, one of which he levitated over to Harry.

Harry plucked the glass out of the air with his left hand, now apprehensive. Kindness from Voldemort was a warning all on its own.

“You’ll kill them?” Harry asked. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. They were Death Eaters, probably, and anti-Muggle, absolutely. They certainly wouldn’t care if Muggles died from a preventable disease. But did that mean they deserved to die?

Voldemort’s red gaze grew shrewd. “Do you have a preference, Potter?”

“No,” Harry said quickly. He took a sip of water to occupy himself. He didn’t want to get pulled into one of Voldemort’s weird moral games at the moment. 

Evidently, Voldemort didn’t want to either, because his mouth flattened out from its faint frown, relaxing into neutrality once more. “Any other thoughts to share?”

Harry _did_ have another thought, something that had bothered him since they’d left the lift earlier this morning. But he wasn’t sure how wise it would be to voice his opinion, even now that Voldemort was visibly in a better mood.

“Come now, I won’t punish you for an honest answer.”

If he did not provide an answer, there was a good chance Voldemort would find another way to wring it out of him. Maybe with the weird connection they sometimes had when Harry forgot to strengthen his Occlumency shields. The one that was almost like Legilimency, but not quite.

Reluctantly, Harry spoke. “I was wondering why—if you’re their Lord and the Minister and all—why don't you just force them to listen to you? Can’t you just do whatever you want?”

Voldemort hummed, looking thoughtful, and swung his legs off of the desk, instead crossing his left leg over the other. The pose was so casual and uncultivated that it altered Voldemort’s demeanour entirely, as though the two of them were friends having a banter instead of a jailor and a prisoner respectively.

“To tear down an existing structure requires little effort. Any person with enough power can do so,” Voldemort said. “To make such a decision with intelligence requires deeper levels of thought. You may not believe me yet, but I seek to _change_ Wizarding Britain, Potter. Not to destroy it. And with change comes resistance, in all its forms, on all sides. Even my own. But slowly, yes, progress is made, and the society both you and I see as flawed will one day come to fruition as a true utopia for all wizardkind.”

Harry fiddled with his hands for a moment. He didn’t believe that this Ministry would lead to any sort of utopia that he wanted a part in. The picture Voldemort was trying to paint was just that—a picture. No amount of pretty words or fancy speeches or generous glasses of water would convince Harry otherwise.

“You will come to understand as I educate you further,” Voldemort continued, “that there is a balance to all things. Everything has its place.”

Harry recalled Lucius Malfoy’s words—Muggles had their uses, they were just not on the same level as magical beings. It held similarities to the platform Grindelwald had built his Dark Lordship on. A platform built on the subjugation of Muggles. “Sure,” Harry said, still unconvinced.

Voldemort’s brows dropped at this answer, which Harry took to mean that it wasn’t the right response. Then Voldemort stood up, moving around the desk, and Harry froze instantly, his body flooding with tension. Only Voldemort came closer still, until he was standing before Harry’s armchair, and Harry had to crane his head backwards in order to look up.

“I have time to convince you,” Voldemort said, and Harry felt the press of warmth against his chin as Voldemort tilted his head even further back, exposing his neck.

Harry stared back, baleful, wanting to pull away yet also somehow unable to do so. They did have time. They had forever, if Voldemort wanted to push them down this path, and Harry wasn’t sure if he could withstand months of this confusing treatment, let alone years. Even now, he was only somewhat adjusted to being Voldemort’s… advisor… or whatever it was that he was doing, and a reversion to his previous confinement would likely send him spiraling into despondency.

Voldemort’s hand withdrew, moving instead to touch at the loose strands of hair that no longer obscured Harry’s forehead. “I can be merciful,” Voldemort said, his voice as soft as his touch. “I have shown you kindness, have I not? I have allowed you to express your opinions, and I have even taken action at your behest.”

“I’m a prisoner,” Harry said. “I’m a Horcrux.”

“Harry Potter,” said Voldemort, his fingertips cold and soothing where they brushed along Harry’s heated skin. “You are much more than that.”

A knock sounded at the door, jolting Harry up his armchair. Voldemort stepped back, putting distance between them, and waved a lazy hand, causing the lock to click and release, letting whoever it was inside.

“My Lord?”

Harry looked over at the door. It was Bellatrix Lestrange. She was wearing rich, fancy robes in shades of violet. The robes were of a soft, shimmering material that clung to her waist and hips as she slid into the room. Of course Voldemort would let her in despite the spells he’d cast on the door. She was his most devoted.

“Yes, Bellatrix?” Voldemort asked. He sounded impatient at having his conversation interrupted.

But Bellatrix’s eyes fell upon Harry instead, a wicked, triumphant smile curling her sumptuous red lips, and Harry felt a familiar sense of dread returning to his body at the sight of it. Such a smile could only mean bad news.

“My Lord,” Bellatrix breathed. “I am very pleased to report the capture of two members of the Order of the Phoenix.” Here she stopped, her eyes gleaming and half-lidded, her chest heaving with the intensity of her fervor. “We have the Mudblood girl and the blood traitor Weasley.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thoughts? worries? how merciful is voldemort, really? the next chapter (already mostly written) may reveal all...
> 
> thanks for reading :)


	14. Privacy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry’s hands twisted into the fabric of his robes, but he kept facing forward, kept his gaze locked onto those gleaming red eyes in the hopes that, if he were to lower his Occlumency shields enough to let Voldemort in, this concession would make the displeasure go away. Voldemort would see that Harry was willing to cooperate, and he would be kind. As kind as someone like Voldemort could be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> harry is having a horrible, no good, very bad day. :( if you've read this far, probably nothing particularly triggering in this chapter.

As soon as Bellatrix had finished speaking, Voldemort’s posture changed. He shifted from casualness to alertness, a ripple from head to toe, his already perfect posture straightening more as he regarded his lieutenant with a mixture of intrigue and amusement.

“I see. Are they unharmed?”

“Yes,” said Bellatrix, her eagerness fading slightly at the question, as though she were unhappy about it.

Harry unfroze, released a slow breath. Unharmed. They were unharmed. That was something he could cling to. An outcrop amidst the violent, churning ocean. A silver lining—a tiny bit of hope. Ron and Hermione were okay, for the time being.

“Escort them to the manor, to my office there. We will see them shortly.” Voldemort’s short, harried sentences betrayed his excitement, no matter how he attempted to disguise it, and Harry’s heart seized up, spluttering in protest at the idea of repeating what had happened to Remus. To be forced to watch or participate. To be forced to cast the Imperius—or worse, the Cruciatus.

Hands clammy and shaking, Harry set his glass of water down on the desk next to him. The act of kindness was no longer appealing, it was no longer something he wanted a part of. His throat could go dry, his lips could crack and split. He had to remember who, exactly, he was dealing with. A murderer and a monster, not a man.

“Yes, my Lord.” Bellatrix bowed, low enough that even Harry, who was still seated, could not mistake the sensuality of the movement.

Then she departed, not unlike a Dementor, leaving a vacuum in her wake. It certainly felt as though all the happiness had been sucked from the room, Harry thought hysterically.

Voldemort vanished the two glasses of water from the desks. “It seems we have a new appointment,” he said lightly. Then he must have caught the barely disguised terror on Harry’s face, because he added, “Less of that, Potter. Have I not earned a modicum of trust? I promised you that we would consult together the next time some of your friends were captured.”

Harry tried to speak over his panic, but he found himself unable to. The room blurred in and out, the mahogany grain of the table dancing before his eyes.

“Potter.”

When Harry still did not respond, Voldemort pulled him to his feet with a tsk. “They will come to no harm today, either by my hand or your own. Does this help?”

With great effort, Harry struggled back into proper control of his body, forcing his head into producing a brief nod. His legs were weak beneath him, but he felt as though he would be able to Apparate without upsetting the meager contents of his stomach.

“Very good,” Voldemort said. “And now, we depart.”

Harry grasped Voldemort’s offered forearm, glad for the excuse to hold onto something, even if it was Voldemort, and then they twisted, Disapparating.

* * *

They reappeared in a room Harry did not recognize. It was grand—larger than the office they had just left, larger than Harry’s room. But the walls were the same colour; a deep forest green. And the decorations were minimal. The mantleplace was devoid of trinkets, the writing desk clear of clutter. Nagini was draped over a long leather futon, her tail flickering occasionally.

Was this Voldemort’s room? Harry tried to assimilate the simplicity of the room with the admittedly complex person in front of him.

Voldemort shed his cloak, folding it with a deft motion and tossing it onto the bed. Harry averted his gaze to the door in case it went further, but then Voldemort snapped his fingers in the direction of the exit, and so Harry stepped towards it.

It took a few paces for Harry to realize they were in the same wing of the manor as both his own room and Voldemort’s office. As their path merged with the one Harry had grown used to, the path that led from his room to the office, Harry felt his heart rate pick up again.

“Relax,” said Voldemort. He hadn’t even looked over.

“Easy for you to say,” Harry muttered. Then his eyes widened as the words registered.

But Voldemort only chuckled, a low burst of amusement, and they continued to walk.

Voldemort was annoying and unreasonable, Harry decided. It was not Harry’s fault that he was afraid and anxious about all this, and it was unfair for Voldemort to expect otherwise. Not everyone could be perfectly composed all the time. Some people had _feelings_ , and feelings demanded to be felt, regardless of who told you to _relax_.

But Harry kept his thoughts to himself, counting the seconds between his breaths as they drew closer to Voldemort’s home office.

He would see Ron and Hermione. And they would be safe for today. He would see them, and today they would be safe.

Harry tugged at the robes he was wearing, wishing that Voldemort would let him change. How would it look for his friends to see him draped in Wizengamot robes? They would see he was weak, that he had succumbed to the promises of power and splendour Voldemort had offered him. They would be disappointed. Their belief that he would someday save them had been sorely misplaced, and today would be the final proof of it.

When they entered the office, Bellatrix was there by the door, wand twirling in her hand, and Harry had to swerve around her to see what he truly wanted—

His friends, kneeling upon the floor, arms and legs bound in rope.

“Thank you. You may leave us, dear Bella. I have it well in hand.”

Bellatrix shot Harry an expression that was no doubt meant to convey her hatred and distrust of him, but she obeyed her Lord, stepping out of the room, and the door shut of its own accord behind her.

Although there were more important things that ought to be occupying his attention, the sight of Bellatrix’s glare amused Harry somewhat. She was jealous. She was jealous of _him_ , though she had no real reason to be, because Harry was here to watch his friends be taken away from him a second time.

“Harry?”

The voice—Hermione’s—jolted Harry back to reality. Harry stepped around them, knelt down in front of them. “Ron,” he said. “Hermione.” His hands stretched out automatically before he realized that they could not reciprocate. He let his hands fall, guilt filling out inside of his stomach. “I’m sorry,” he continued, at a loss of what else to say.

Ron was pale, a stark contrast to Hermione’s flushed, reddened face. The two exchanged a look, wordless communication passing between them.

“It’s not your fault,” Hermione said, and her tone was sharp and unyielding, her brows set into a stern frown. “None of this is your fault, Harry—”

Harry glanced up and over her shoulder, where Voldemort was still standing by the closed door. Wasn’t this all his fault? He had gotten himself captured to begin with, and now Voldemort would want to make some twisted deal involving Ron and Hermione simply because Harry was here to be messed with.

But Harry had to try. He had to find a way to convince Voldemort to let them go, like Remus had been let go. If he gave up enough of himself, if he could come up with something entertaining enough, then maybe Ron and Hermione could live.

Ron shifted forward a bit, likely picking up on the source of Harry’s nervousness. “Hey, Harry,” said Ron. “It’s alright.”

Harry inhaled, sniffling. Then he inhaled again, more raggedly this time. He was crying. He hadn’t noticed it until now, but he was crying, and now his friends were trying to comfort him. Harry felt stupid. He was supposed to be better than this, he was supposed to be getting them out of this situation, not making it worse.

“It’s alright,” Harry repeated. He lifted his arms to pat his friends on their shoulders, to reassure both him and them that it would, in fact, be alright. Tap-tap. A quick touch. Then Harry wiped at his face, drying it with the long sleeve of his plum robe, and stood up, turning to face Voldemort.

“Can we have a moment?” he asked, willing himself to be bold, to be brave in the way that Gryffindors were supposed to. “In private?” Then, because he felt the need to make sure that this happened, he added, “Because… because I helped you today?” Because while Harry had agreed to provide his opinions, voting in the Wizengamot was a whole other level of ‘helpful’, and surely Voldemort would concede this.

Voldemort eyed him, impassive, and Harry was fearful of the answer. “Very well,” said Voldemort. “I will give you five minutes.”

And then he left the room.

* * *

There was not long for shock or relief despite both emotions flooding him at once. Harry scrambled back over to his friends to try and undo the ropes holding them captive, but Ron shook his head, tilting away.

“They’re magical. You can’t untie them.”

Harry let his hands drop back to his sides, dismayed at being robbed of his ability to help them. “Are you both okay?” he asked. “Bellatrix said you weren’t hurt, but—”

“We’re fine, Harry,” said Hermione. Then her lip wobbled, and her composure shattered. “We’ve been so _worried_ ,” she said tearfully.

“I’m fine,” Harry said tersely. “You shouldn’t worry about me. I’m going to get you out of here, I promise, just like I did with Remus.”

“Is he—is he treating you alright, then?” Ron asked. “Remus couldn’t say. Or he wouldn’t say. But he said—he told us—he said you were… were…” Ron’s voice faltered, his eyes dropping.

“Yeah,” said Harry. “I am.”

Precious seconds ticked away as they stared at each other. Then Hermione broke the silence, shuffling in place as she attempted to toss her messy hair over her shoulder.

“The dragon pox vote was today, wasn’t it?” Hermione asked, glancing down at the silver emblem attached to the front of his robes.

Harry nodded. “Yes,” he said, then paused. “How did you know that?”

“We’ve been following the development,” Ron said. “To see if it would go through or not.”

“It did,” Harry said. This, at least, was some good news he could offer them. “It passed this morning.”

Ron looked relieved. “That’s something, then.”

“Harry,” said Hermione, a tone of urgency leaking into her voice. “Has he been treating you alright? Aside from… from the Horcrux part.”

Harry nodded again, not trusting his own voice to speak without trembling. Of course Voldemort had been treating him well. He was a Horcrux now, a treasured possession, and it made sense that Voldemort would want Harry to be kept in good condition.

“He hasn’t been hurting you?” Ron demanded, disbelief colouring the statement.

Harry shrugged, but then the tugging motion across his chest reminded him that Voldemort _had_ hurt him. “Not really,” Harry lied. 

Ron squinted, not convinced. “Listen, Harry, we don’t want to pretend we know what it’s like, being holed up in here with snake-face—”

“Ron,” Hermione hissed. “He’s right outside the door!”

“—but you’re doing your best, alright? You didn’t ask for any of this, and we’re not going to blame you if things go sideways. We’ve been just as prepared for this possibility as you were, and I don’t want you feeling guilty over this shit.”

Harry shook his head, vehement, but before he could protest against what Ron had said, there was a rap at the door. Harry’s mouth snapped shut, and he pulled himself to his feet just as Voldemort re-entered the room.

“I have decided to place them in your old room,” Voldemort said brusquely. “And we will discuss the particulars without their... interference.”

The image of Ron and Hermione in his old padded cell did not make sense. They did not belong there. That cell had played host to the lowest moments of Harry’s life—lower, even, than that agonizing night in the ritual room. Thoughts of failure, depression, and self-hatred bubbled up, and Harry had to distract himself from them.

“And they’ll be fed?” Harry asked, hating his sudden meekness.

“You have my word.”

Ron and Hermione were silent as they watched the interplay, but Harry could feel the tension gathering in the air. The clouds of fear that hung over them all.

“Okay,” Harry said, swallowing. His throat felt parched again. He was so afraid, so _afraid_. If he lost Ron and Hermione, he did not think he could go on. “Thank you,” he added, shutting his eyes, ashamed of himself, hoping that this would please Voldemort, who had claimed to be merciful.

A flicker of displeasure passed over Voldemort’s face, but Harry was the only one in a position to see it. Voldemort would take them to the cell. He would take them all to the cell, or he would just take Ron and Hermione, leaving Harry alone here in this office. If they all went together, then both his friends would see the place where Harry had been held, and Harry would have to face their judgement. The knowledge of the blank, white room where he had languished for weeks on end, wishing for death to take him, even long after death had become an impossibility.

Harry’s hands twisted into the fabric of his robes, but he kept facing forward, kept his gaze locked onto those gleaming red eyes in the hopes that, if he were to lower his Occlumency shields enough to let Voldemort in, this concession would make the displeasure go away. Voldemort would see that Harry was willing to cooperate, and he would be kind. As kind as someone like Voldemort could be.

But Voldemort’s expression remained neutral, and Harry felt himself working up to another panic before Voldemort said, “What is the name of Narcissa’s elf?”

The random question threw Harry entirely. “Dobby?” he said, his confusion audible to his own ears.

Said elf appeared with a crack, large eyes wide as he took in their audience. Then Dobby swept into a lower bow, prostrating himself at the Dark Lord’s feet. “Dobby has come to serve, sir.”

“Take these two prisoners to the padded cell,” Voldemort commanded. “Bring them food and water. Do not talk to them, do not let them escape.”

“Yes, Lord sir. Dobby will do so.” Dobby reached out with spindly arms to grasp Ron and Hermione by their shoulders and Disapparated with another loud _crack._

Relief. Harry trusted Dobby, somewhat, to look after his friends. They would be safe with Dobby. And with Narcissa, if she was called in to check on them.

“Acceptable?” Voldemort asked, striding towards his desk chair.

“Yes,” Harry said, breathing the word out along with his gratitude. “Yes, thank you.”

Voldemort sat down, and so Harry scrambled over to his own chair, settling into it. He could do this. He could talk to Voldemort and convince the man to let Ron and Hermione live. Whatever it took, Harry would do it.

Nothing happened as Voldemort reclined in his chair, still watching Harry, expression pensive. Then one of the cabinets next to Harry opened with a click, and Harry jumped at the sound.

It was only a cabinet for drinks. Two goblets floated idly out and landed upon Voldemort’s desk. Water again? Harry blinked at the warped reflection of himself on the goblet’s shiny surface. He supposed that they hadn’t gotten to really have much water the first time.

Voldemort’s wand slid into his hand. He tapped each of the goblets once, and Harry watched as they filled with a dark liquid, the colour not unlike the colour of Voldemort’s eyes. Harry tried, with some difficulty, to not think of blood.

“Juice?” Harry asked.

“Wine,” said Voldemort, contemplative. “Though I suppose it would be better served with a meal.”

Voldemort was hungry, and he wanted to eat before they did anything else? Or he wanted to discuss the lives of Harry’s friends over lunch, like it was a casual thing, like Harry still wasn’t terrified of making the wrong move and failing two of the people who mattered most to him.

“Um.” Harry said, when Voldemort continued to sit there, goblet in hand as he swirled the liquid around in it.

Voldemort set the goblet back down upon the table. “We will eat first.”

Harry nodded, though his heart was betraying him once again, its beat thumping wildly in his ears. He wished they could just hurry up and get this conversation over with. The longer they sat here, the more anxious he became. What did Voldemort have planned?

Voldemort summoned another House-Elf, and soon enough Harry was nibbling his way through a garden salad and a small portion of pork. His goblet remained untouched, though Harry noted Voldemort’s eyes lingered on it occasionally.

Once his salad was mostly gone, Harry reached for the drink and took a tiny sip so as not to seem ungrateful for the luxury. The wine was nice. Though Harry didn’t have much of an appreciation for the details of alcohol, he could tell what he liked well enough, and whatever this was, it was pleasant to the tongue. Not too sweet, or too bitter.

Harry was only part way finished when Voldemort cleared his plate. Voldemort set his utensils down upon the empty dish, which vanished almost instantly.

Usually Harry tried to finish eating at the same time so that neither of them would be tempted to watch the other, but in this case his nerves had failed him. His stomach was not receptive to much food, and so Harry pushed around what remained on his plate for a few seconds before deciding to give up. There was nothing to be gained from eating the rest of the food as it would only make him more nauseous later on, and to continue to eat would only delay the inevitable.

Harry set his utensils down. His plate vanished, leaving Harry’s portion of the desk clear save for the wine goblet. Then Harry waited for Voldemort to speak.

Voldemort had adopted a look of thoughtfulness. He was gazing at Harry, searchingly so, though Harry could not imagine what he was looking for. Desperation? Obedience? Both of those things Harry was willing to offer in spades. It killed him to not know what it was that Voldemort wanted.

But didn’t he know? Harry recalled, from earlier this morning, what Voldemort had said. That there would be time to convince Harry of his point of view. Time to educate him further. And Harry had been privy to a great deal lately, more so than the highest ranking Death Eaters. Voldemort presumably liked having Harry around to talk to, and he wanted Harry to side with him on things, like with the dragon pox issue. But Harry wasn’t sure how much of that he could do genuinely, or even convincingly.

For it was one thing to act on saving the lives of everyone who could take the vaccine, but it was another thing entirely to side with Voldemort’s Ministry on a permanent basis.

Could Harry do that if it meant saving his friends? Could he act the part of Voldemort’s honest advisor? It felt selfish, like he was jattempting to alleviate his own guilt by putting Ron and Hermione out of harm’s way, even if it was at the cost of others suffering in their stead.

Harry felt his stomach twist again, and he squirmed in place on his chair. He was so tired, so exhausted from being awoken at such an early hour. His fear and anxiety were only clouding his head further, making it difficult to think.

Still, the question he had posed to himself remained. Could he compromise all that he had fought against and work for the man he had sworn to defeat if it meant Ron and Hermione could live?

Harry wasn’t sure of the answer, which upset him. Being indecisive was a detriment. Voldemort would not give him the benefit of time to think about this for too long, despite his promise of leaving Ron and Hermione unharmed until tomorrow.

“Your thoughts are very loud.”

Harry shivered, glancing up. He hadn’t noticed his eyes had dropped to the floor. But Voldemort didn’t seem angry. His face was calm, unchanged from the thoughtful look from before.

“Sorry,” Harry said. He wasn’t sure how to make his thoughts more quiet, not if he was going to keep his Occlumency shields lowered for Voldemort to peruse his head, but he could try.

Voldemort sighed, leaning back in his chair once again, only this time the motion was resigned, not relaxed. “I could calm you, if you wished. Would this help you? Your answer will have no effect on the fate of your friends—I give you my word. There is no response that will displease me more than the other.”

Harry sucked his lower lip into his mouth. The offer was tempting. It would be nice to give over to the serenity of Voldemort in his head, regulating his emotions, stamping down on the terror and keeping it at bay. And Voldemort would like that, he would like to sit around in Harry’s head because it gave him control. So it would be better to say yes, because that was the answer Voldemort would like to hear regardless of what it was he was saying.

If there was no wrong answer, then there was still a _better_ answer.

The weight of Voldemort’s gaze rested upon him like a thick blanket. Harry shifted, trying to see if there was a trap or trick that he was missing. A loophole that Voldemort could concoct with clever phrasing.

“Potter?” Voldemort’s voice again, now softer.

The impression of care was unsettling. Harry wanted the unsettling feeling to disappear, to go away and leave him to think with clarity.

“Okay,” Harry said. “Okay, you can.” At least he was being asked instead of simply having his mind invaded. At least he was being given the veneer of choice. A choice, like the one he would inexorably be making when it came to the fates of Ron and Hermione.

“Do try to relax this time.”

Harry held still. Eight seconds between his breaths. Inhale and exhale. Push the tension from his limbs, unstiffen his spine. Clench and unclench his hands, and then—and then make eye contact, letting Voldemort into his mind.

The presence flooded in, slippery and nearly unobtrusive as it settled, curling around the pieces of himself that Harry identified as his emotions. It caressed itself against fear, sidling up with anxiety, and suddenly both feelings were smaller and less important. The knots inside of Harry loosened, and his next breath came more freely.

“Thank you,” Harry said for the third time, and it was the most sincere he had ever been.

“You’re welcome.” Voldemort’s tone was warmer, and Harry felt even better upon hearing it. “Now that you are of a clearer mind, we can discuss.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ron and hermione are such good friends. i love them a lot. it would be a shame if something happened to them... kdlsjgklsdj i can't even tell if i'm kidding or not. but hey, i let lupin live, that means something, doesn't it? 👀
> 
> on a daily basis i think about how this story was originally mean to be a one-shot, then a 10 chapter, and now it's looking like it'll end up as 20 lol.
> 
> next chapter may be a while. i want to try and hash out some words on my other projects! but thanks for reading, hope the chapter was enjoyable :)


	15. Undertaking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Voldemort smiled. A real smile, not the one Harry had seen flashed either at the Ministry or at more irritating Death Eaters. This smile was closest to one Harry had witnessed on the night of the Horcrux ritual. Voldemort triumphant; Voldemort victorious. But there was less horror this time. Less darkness to the edges. There was a hint of truth to the curve of Voldemort’s lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as expected, this chapter was really fuckin' heavy to write. :'(
> 
> remember when i said it would be a while until the next chapter... haha it's only been a few days 😥😥😥

“Now that you are of a clearer mind, we can discuss.”

Harry stilled, unconsciously bracing himself for the ingrained terror, but nothing happened. His head was still okay. Maybe he was no longer in control, but his emotions were regulated, and that was better than nothing. Harry could think critically about things. He could make decisions free of his fear.

“Okay.” A mere agreement didn’t feel adequate, however, so Harry added, “What do you want me to do?”

“Do you recall the offer I first made you?” Voldemort asked.

Pause. It took a moment for the memory to surface, for Harry to pull at the threads of the past firmly enough for the recollection to turn solid in his mind. 

Months ago, when Harry had been freshly captured, Voldemort had offered the lives of Harry’s friends and family in exchange for Harry’s submission and willing captivity.

Something fluttered in Harry’s head, like a butterfly trapped in a cage. As another second ticked by, Harry realized that the emotion, pinned though it was, was guilt. He would have taken that offer then, if he had known what was going to happen to him. He could have saved Remus, Ron, and Hermione—and any of his other friends who might someday fall into Voldemort’s hands.

But that had been then. This was now, a different time and place, and Harry would need to make a new choice, though he did not yet know what it was.

“Yes,” Harry said, because there was no ache in his heart to stop him from doing so, only an echo of sadness for what could have been.

Voldemort inclined his head as if this had been the expected answer. “I am prepared to offer two choices. You will make the decision of your own accord, and you may have as much time as you wish, so long as I believe you are genuinely attempting to make a decision.”

Harry nodded, still mostly calm, still mostly in control of himself.

“Both options will require concessions on your part. I will list those concessions at the end. Is this clear so far?”

Harry nodded again. He could now feel the beginnings of worry pressing at his temples, but the emotion was dull, blanketed by Voldemort’s presence.

“Option one. Your friends swear an Unbreakable Vow of neutrality against me. Then they may live in captivity, though their freedoms will be limited, and you will be permitted to see them occasionally.”

Harry waited to see if there was more, but Voldemort appeared to be waiting for a reaction or response. “O-okay,” Harry said, the word thick on his tongue, his throat working slowly, like it was coated in molasses.

“Option two. I will wipe them both of a majority of their memories. I will alter their appearances, implant new, fresh memories, and send them away, together, to a country of your choosing, where they will live comfortable, oblivious lives far away from my domain.”

As Voldemort finished speaking, his hands came together, the fingertips touching, his arms braced on top of his desk. Expectant.

Harry mulled over what he had heard. Ron and Hermione would live either way. So this had to be a trick, didn’t it? Or perhaps whatever concessions Voldemort wanted would be things Harry could not give, so that this entire conversation was doomed to failure no matter what.

But Remus had been allowed to live, so it was not completely out of the question for Voldemort to offer the same out for Harry’s closest friends. Voldemort said he was merciful. Voldemort enjoyed the label of magnanimity that came from being kind. Voldemort enjoyed the exercise of control he had over Harry’s life.

Well aware that Voldemort was picking up on every thought in his head, Harry cleared his throat. “And what do I have to do for those options?” he asked.

Voldemort smiled. A real smile, not the one Harry had seen flashed either at the Ministry or at more irritating Death Eaters. This smile was closest to one Harry had witnessed on the night of the Horcrux ritual. Voldemort triumphant; Voldemort victorious. But there was less horror this time. Less darkness to the edges. There was a hint of truth to the curve of Voldemort’s lips.

“Harry,” said Voldemort. “What you must first remember is there is little I could not take from you by force. What I require—what I have asked for during these past few months—is your willing cooperation. And you have performed impressively, yes, and you have surpassed my expectations.”

Harry blinked, shoving aside his discomfort at the compliment. While he had known that Voldemort liked having him around, he hadn’t thought there was an actual reason behind his continued presence other than Voldemort’s personal amusement. To hear that Voldemort wanted him around specifically to help out—Harry had known that he had been _helping_ , at least somewhat, but to hear this from Voldemort gave the word new meaning.

“You want me to help out more?” Harry asked, confused. He had asked himself this question only minutes earlier, but those minutes now felt like a lifetime ago. It had been one thing to imagine himself as—as Voldemort’s court jester, as a plaything to parade about at the Wizengamot and in front of the Death Eaters. Could he be an honest advisor? Was his opinion really so valuable?

“Your views are fascinating,” Voldemort answered. “I find that the value of your ongoing moral dilemma extends beyond amusement.”

Harry struggled to comprehend this. His moral dilemma? This was his _life_ they were talking about. His fucking immortal life. At the moment, Harry was very sure this entire situation was the universe’s way of setting up a grand cosmic joke at his expense.

But no sooner had he thought that did he clamp down on his own anger, knowing it wouldn’t make the situation any better. Not for him, and not for Ron and Hermione.

Voldemort continued to speak, his words languid as he said, “The worth of human lives—Muggle or magical. The worth of those you care for. How you balance these, how you justify them. I must confess I have never fully understood the impact of care, despite twisting its results to my own ends.”

“Must be nice not to care,” Harry said, unable to keep the sarcasm from colouring his tone. Evidently, Voldemort hadn’t bothered to stamp out his defiance, because Harry was beginning to get irritated, and the emotion felt very real and present in his mind.

“There are other things to care for. There is order, and with order comes control, and with control comes power. And with power—”

“Comes corruption,” Harry finished, cutting Voldemort off. “If you don’t care about people, then why bother with any of this at all? Why not just force everyone to worship you, Imperius them all or something. Why do you need a Ministry with a Wizengamot?”

“I do believe I said ‘order’,” Voldemort replied evenly. “Did I not?”

If Voldemort didn’t want a country of slaves, then what did he want? What did Dark Lords want, if not the subjugation of the populace? Voldemort had power over everything in magical Britain. He had this huge mansion full of House-Elves and Death Eaters to serve him. He even had _Harry_ with him, a feat which had secured not only his immortal reign, but his immortal life as well.

But Voldemort also wanted cooperation, Harry reminded himself. There was the stilted dance of politics they had been doing together. Harry was a constant at Voldemort’s side, providing advice, providing insight. Voldemort was much smarter than him, there was no doubt in Harry’s mind about that, but Voldemort still kept him around anyways. Harry now knew more things than he wanted to; he knew information that the Order would have killed for.

Additionally, Voldemort had been educating Harry on the ways of his Ministry. Voldemort had said they had time, and that he wanted to convince Harry of his plan for a future utopia.

“You want—you want everyone to be like me,” Harry realized. “You want them to cooperate because they agree with you. Because they want to.” A reign free of conflict. An empire built by all that was overseen by Voldemort himself, built on the backs of bloodshed and pointless suffering.

“What I want is your loyalty. Nothing less. The lack of hesitation you possess when faced with the option to sacrifice yourself. Your willingness to die for your moral cause. A powerful thing, that. A potent thing. You are my Horcrux, and so a degree of loyalty is owed to me.” 

“I couldn’t,” Harry blurted out, and then he cringed at himself. Because the honesty was bad, it was a bad answer, and though Voldemort was holding his terror at bay, Harry was still capable of _embarrassment_ , of all things.

A tingle pressed against his consciousness that signaled laughter, or something close to it, and Harry scrunched his face up in response. Perhaps Harry would play the role of amuser anyway.

Harry waited until the echo faded, until the presence went quiet. Then he said, “That’s the concession you want from me? You want my loyalty.”

“Ideally.”

It was better to be honest, Harry decided. To hope Voldemort would think of something else, or that he, Harry, could come up with a suitable alternative. “I don’t think I can do that.”

Almost absently, Harry traced a hand over his chest. Though the idea of another scar had once nearly driven him to paralysis, it was easier now to think of offering himself up again, his body a canvas, his bare skin given over to the Dark Lord’s sadistic urges.

But Voldemort had a response to this thought as well. “I do not wish to break your spirit. I find your strength admirable. If I were to torture you, to push you over the edge into submission, there would be little satisfaction.”

“You do it with others.” Harry felt compelled to point this out. “You did it with lots of people.”

“Others do not matter to me.”

Harry had a piece of Voldemort in him. Maybe it was no longer appealing to torture Harry knowing that. Maybe Voldemort, through their odd connection, could feel when Harry was in pain or discomfort.

“How is it that you… you know, do that with my emotions?” Harry knew he was changing the subject, but he wanted to understand exactly what it was that Voldemort was thinking. Why was it so important to Voldemort that Harry willingly side with him?

“You may employ Occlumency shields, but you do a poor job of it,” Voldemort said, but there was no tone of insult. “You have never learned to properly regulate your emotions—a fact which was clear to me as soon as I touched your mind with Legilimency. What I provide are my own Occlumency barriers. They are in place of the ones you should have built for yourself.”

Then Voldemort retrieved his yew wand, tapping the top of his desk with it. A drawer slid open, and from within its depths Voldemort withdrew another wand. Harry’s wand.

Harry had not seen his wand in months, but the sight of it was enough to set off a fresh ache inside of him. Magic. He had missed his magic.

“I still don’t understand all this,” Harry said, eyes fixed on the holly stick in Voldemort’s hand. “I don’t get what you want from me, or why you want it, or why we’re doing any of this at all.”

Voldemort said nothing. Harry squirmed under the weight of Voldemort’s stare, thoroughly discomfited, and a bit worried that he’d said something wrong.

“It is difficult to explain,” Voldemort said at last. “But I assure you my intentions are genuine. I will let your friends live, should you choose to accept my terms.”

So he had to let this go for now? Harry nodded slowly, more to himself than to Voldemort. “What else did you want? You said ‘concessions’, plural.”

Voldemort set Harry’s wand down upon the table. There was a faint thrum in Harry’s fingertips, as though his magic knew his wand was near. He wanted to snatch it up, to take it away from Voldemort, who had already denied him so much. Had denied him death.

“Your presence at future meetings of the Wizengamot, for one.”

Easy enough. Sit through more politics and cast his vote.

“Okay,” Harry said. Then, more confidently, he added, “I can do that.” He would just have to not think too hard on exactly what he was voting _for_ , if it came to voting for something bad. Whatever it was, it would be something Voldemort would do anyways, regardless if the result of the vote gave him the appearance of legitimacy or not.

Harry could justify this to himself. He _would_ justify it, he would find a way, because this was something he could do to please Voldemort and spare his friends. This was just another mind game.

“And lastly,” Voldemort said. “I wish for you to act as a conduit between myself and some of those in my inner circle.”

Inexplicably, Harry thought of Nott, who ran around constantly and was obviously an assistant of some kind. But Voldemort didn’t have an assistant. He had employees, Death Eaters, and an extra group of sycophants composed of people like Bellatrix that didn’t have official titles. Could Voldemort even give up enough control to have a proper assistant? Voldemort struck Harry as the type to deal with everything of import personally, lest his followers mess things up when left to their own devices.

“Like Nott?” Harry asked, trying to imagine what this would all look like. Though he was doing his best to follow along, it was hard to stamp down his burgeoning curiosity. He was supposed to let this go; he wasn’t supposed to question things too much. Ron and Hermione could live, he repeated to himself. They could live if he could get through this.

“Somewhat,” Voldemort said. “If it helps, you may think of yourself as my aide.”

A laugh burbled its way past Harry’s lips. Voldemort’s aide. This was worse than torture, Harry decided. The agonizing fate of being a willing participant in Voldemort’s cause. Of seeing betrayal etched into the faces of those who had once believed in his ability to save them.

“But why?” Harry asked, working past the discomfort wrought in him by the imbalance of power between them, but his desperation to understand was choking the words as he shoved them out one by one. “Why do you want me to do this?”

“Others will come and go, and death will claim them all, even my most loyal. But I will remain eternal, and you will be by my side as a constant,” Voldemort said. “To spend years locked in a battle against your pointless resistance is a waste of my time. It is more sensible to recruit you. The sooner you accept this, the sooner you will find your peace here.”

To save Ron and Hermione, Harry would do anything. He would sell the little bits of himself that he had left to offer. His dignity, his morality, and—were Voldemort to have his way—his loyalty. A bought man as well as an imprisoned one.

Was it an equal trade for the lives of his friends? Voldemort believed so.

“You have my terms,” Voldemort said, “and you will make a decision. Your service for their safety; your loyalty for their lives.”

Harry had already told Voldemort that he wasn’t capable of offering loyalty. But with the request so bluntly phrased, Harry was now less sure of his previous answer.

“Disregard the conditions I have set,” Voldemort commanded, his voice once again disrupting Harry’s inner monologue. “And make a decision.”

Choose first, wrestle with his own inner demons later.

Harry sucked in a fresh breath of air to jump start his brain into thinking, but he knew what his answer would be. He could not— _would not_ —condemn his friends to a life in captivity. If they were to stay, captivity or no, they would never stop fighting, and eventually they would die.

It was better for them to forget about him. They wouldn’t have to worry anymore about how he would be trapped in this life forever.

Harry pictured Ron’s kind blue eyes and Hermione’s warm, toothy smile. Pieces of his friends that would live on in his memory for eternity. Pieces he could carry with him, once they were gone. Gone somewhere safe.

His chest heaved as a soft noise of pain escaped him. He was crying, he knew, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to care. If Voldemort wanted him to stop crying, then the bastard could do it himself. 

“I see.” Voldemort stood, scooping Harry’s wand up off of the table. “Have you performed an Obliviation before?”

Harry struggled with his blurry vision. Sliding a hand underneath his glasses, he rubbed at his eyes until he could make out the form of Voldemort standing before him.

“No,” Harry said. “Usually—usually Hermione does the Obliviations.” The fact slipped out before he could think better of it. But what did it matter, really, when the three of them would never be going out on a mission together ever again? “She used to do them,” he added in a whisper.

“I understand this will be difficult for you,” Voldemort said, “and so I will aid you with the process.”

Aid him? Harry stared, uncomprehending.

Then the implication sunk in.

“You want me to do it?” Harry asked, his pitch rising. “You want me to Obliviate them?”

Harry waited for the calm to wash over him, for Voldemort to strip the panic away. But there was nothing, only the pain, only the deepening horror at what he would be made to do. The product of his own decisions.

“Would you prefer I did so? Clear them of their memories of you? Of their loved ones?”

That wasn’t right. It wasn’t right. It should be Harry, it had to be him. Harry owed them that much. He owed their families that much—to view the remains of who they were before it was all gone for good.

“Will they be the same, after?” Harry sounded small to his own ears. Quiet, resigned. He gazed at his lap, at the folds of the plum fabric that made up his Wizengamot robes. Robes he would now wear for years to come.

“They will remain themselves. I will change their names and provide a comparable history for them.”

Harry wasn’t sure how that would work. How could they be the same, once everything was erased? Once the memories of them together that Harry loved and cherished were no more.

He thought of how they would hate him for choosing this, though they would not remember it afterwards.

“They will live,” Voldemort said kindly. “And they will enjoy a better life than the one they would have chosen for themselves, for undoubtedly they would have chosen to stay here with you.”

It was mercy. It was awful and terrible and wrong, but it was a mercy, a kindness. And it was also selfish of him, because Harry knew he could not bear to witness his friends wasting away in this place, growing old and stagnant. They deserved whatever happiness he could secure for them.

Harry looked up. He was tired, his head was beginning to hurt, and he knew now why Voldemort was holding his wand, because such a deed would require the strongest connection to his magic that he could muster.

“Does it have to be today?”

Voldemort’s red eyes were darker from this angle—like a very deep shade of brown made warmer by the candlelight around them. “Will time make it easier?”

It wouldn’t. But if he could just spend a moment longer with them, then—

But could he? Could he spend any period of time in their presence without the stabbing guilt?

Harry felt like crying all over again. Hadn’t he dreamed of seeing them, of hugging them close? Daydreams of rescue and comfort scattered to the winds; they would never be his friends again after this. He was condemning them to this eradication, this non-existence.

_Others will come and go, and death will claim them all._

Someday, everyone he knew would be dead, either by Voldemort’s hand, or as a result of the natural passage of time. When that time came, it would be just the two of them left—him and Voldemort—and so Harry had to make the choice that would see him through to that time without losing himself.

His heart, wounded and starving, would have to be locked away. It had no place here amongst the cruel and the single-minded.

He would be clinical. He would be efficient. He would serve under the Dark Lord, saving however many lives he could, and if he was ever brought to judgement by a higher power, he would plead no mercy, for he deserved whatever retribution he would suffer.

Harry rose to his feet. The top of his head came up to just above Voldemort’s chin, and at this range, they were less than an arm’s length away from each other.

“You won’t hurt them,” Harry said. “And they will have a nice house and good jobs and they’ll bring Hermione’s cat, Crookshanks, with them. And you’ll leave them to their lives together without interfering.”

“You have my word.”

Living with this decision, accepting it—if he could do those things, then there was little else that could shake him.

Harry wiped his hand on his robes and stuck it out. “Then we have a deal.”

The hand that grasped his own was firm. There was only Voldemort, Harry told himself. This man would become all he lived and breathed, restrained however partially by Harry’s influence, until the end of time and magic.

There was no prophecy. There was no hope. There was only this handshake, this agreement that would mark the last time Harry allowed himself to be weak in front of the Dark Lord.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am sorry to say that we will not be seeing ron or hermione again. we are now moving towards the last two major events of this story, and there eventually will be longer time skips.
> 
> i've really enjoyed writing this (more than i thought i would) and i'm excited to see it through till the end. thanks for reading!


	16. Familiarity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His mantra was such: he would bear it, he would bear it. When the Dark Lord’s gaze fell upon him, questioning and analyzing, Harry did not flinch. As the presence poured into his mind, flooding his head, he held still, let it happen, allowed Voldemort to be assured of the loyalty that Harry had wretchedly promised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't rly have any thoughts to preface this chapter with other than 'voldemort is a possessive bastard 🙄'
> 
> but there is a longer a/n at the end of the chapter ❤️

Harry would never be fond of the Dark Lord, but it was difficult to dehumanize someone he spent so much time around.

It was a side effect of all their time together. Even when they were apart, Harry found himself imagining that voice in his head, that hand on his shoulder. He knew how the Dark Lord took his tea. He recognized the pose the Dark Lord adopted when deep in thought. All the minutiae that made up the Dark Lord were filed and shelved in the beginnings of the mental library in Harry’s mind. The minutiae that made Voldemort human and not just a tyrant without morals.

Under the Dark Lord’s tutelage, Harry had once again taken to studying Occlumency, this time with a renewed sense of purpose. Though his mind would always be open to the Dark Lord, his mental protection needed to meet a certain standard in order for him to serve properly.

There was to be no privacy when the Dark Lord was near. Harry knew this—though Voldemort never explicitly stated so—because he had learned to anticipate these things. Everyone else was to be blocked out so that only the Dark Lord’s whims would exist in Harry’s mind.

And so Harry played liaison, funneling reports back and forth between the Dark Lord’s manor and Ministry. The Dark Lord had activated the fireplace in Harry’s bedroom, allowing two-way travel between his Floo and the one in the Minister's office.

It was now common for Harry to spend hours in an office chair there, trying to sort through files, restrained by the confines of the walls. Harry wasn’t given access to everything, and he certainly was not given anything dangerous or heavily classified, but there was a lot of boring paperwork that came from running an entire country, and it was now Harry’s job to pick and choose the most important parts to summarize.

It was because of this development that Harry found himself spending a lot of time in the company of Theodore Nott.

While Harry wasn’t allowed out of the office, Nott was allowed inside of it, usually to hand off more reports and such. But sometimes Nott would hang about, and Harry had begun to suspect that Nott was looking for the familiarity of having someone else his own age around. With jobs like theirs, there certainly wasn’t room for much of a social life. Crouch Jr. was just as busy as the Dark Lord, if not more so.

So Harry struck up a rapport. Nott was smart, useful, and amiable enough that Harry had started to like him somewhat. In the weeks that passed, they got along better than Harry could have asked for or expected. Harry took in the intricacies of the Slytherin’s humour, the wry tilt of Nott’s voice when he thought Harry had said something particularly clever, the twitching curve of his smile when Harry caught him off-guard with a glib comment.

It helped to pass the time, at any rate. To let a bit of himself squirm loose. To stretch out the pieces that he kept locked tight whenever the Dark Lord was around.

Overall, the work was routine, which was comforting, and the decisions Harry got to make were rewarding enough that he thought he could continue to bear this for however long it took for the Dark Lord to grow tired of him.

His mantra was such: he would bear it, _he would bear it._ When the Dark Lord’s gaze fell upon him, questioning and analyzing, Harry did not flinch. As the presence poured into his mind, flooding his head, he held still, let it happen, allowed Voldemort to be assured of the loyalty that Harry had wretchedly promised.

And there was a vial on the Dark Lord’s desk, one filled with the silver wisp that represented a memory. Harry had asked for it to be removed from his mind so he could distance himself from it, and of course the Dark Lord had kept it as a trophy of sorts. And so only the echo remained, the empty ache in Harry’s head. It was less than it could have been—less than it _should_ have been—and Harry found himself grateful for the separation that allowed him to maintain his aloofness.

Because although Harry was limited only to reports, there was still horror hidden between the neat lines of ink-etched parchment. There were reports on the progress being made to overhaul the Hogwarts curriculum. There were reports on Muggleborn children who were ‘liberated’ from their homes and placed into foster care and group homes. There were reports on the restructuring of the Ministry departments. There were reports on the budget allocation for prisoners in confinement.

It wore down on him, the things he read. The things he had once tried so hard to change. But the Dark Lord held to his promises to permit mercy, and so Harry would numb himself to the things he had to read about, because as difficult as this was, he knew that any other alternative would be truly unbearable.

* * *

As the month drew to a close, the dragon pox vaccine reached completion and flew into production. Harry supervised the paper trail and organized the contracts that the Minister for Magic needed to sign. The Dark Lord had read the contracts with care, taking the time to confirm the facts and numbers Harry had painstakingly compiled.

But Voldemort had signed in the end, because they both knew this was not an endeavour where Harry would be tempted to shirk his duties. There were lives at stake with this. It was the most useful Harry felt since he’d first landed himself in captivity.

When it was all done, signed and sealed, Harry handed the stack off to Theodore, who nodded in a grim manner, his silent gaze conveying gratefulness.

“You’re welcome,” Harry said mechanically, answering the unspoken sentiment. This, at least, was something he could claim as a victory. “See to it that any further updates come to me first.”

Theodore nodded again, though his brow creased momentarily with hesitation, his fingers curled around the folder full of contracts Harry had shown to the Dark Lord. “You may not believe in the cause, not really, but it’s good that you’re here. Things are better with you around.”

Better? Harry couldn’t see how, unless it was because there were now less people who had to deal directly with the Dark Lord’s temper—a large portion of the Dark Lord’s interactions was now funneled through Harry instead.

So Harry was busy, which was good, but it also meant that Harry had little clue as to what the Dark Lord was doing during his periods of solitude. But if Voldemort was torturing people in his spare time, at least no one was writing any reports on it, and so Harry didn’t have to know.

“Thanks,” Harry said to Theodore, unmoving.

Theodore drew closer, his tall form throwing a shadow across Harry’s desk. “I mean it, Harry. We’ve done a good deed with this. I know you understand that. And I admire your bravery, the way you hold to your Gryffindor values. But you can find your place here as well. I believe it. We work well together, don’t we? And this can continue for as long as the Dark Lord sees fit.”

Harry didn’t miss the underlying implication. And he did not miss the way Theodore’s eyes touched upon his lips, his eyes, his forehead. They were both standing, and it only took a few short steps for Theodore to round the corner and come to a stop directly next to Harry.

“It’s been nice working together,” Harry said, polite and stilted. “I’m glad the treatment will be distributed soon.”

Theodore lingered longer, the slender fingers of his free hand drumming across the wooden surface of the desk. The dark tendrils of his hair fell across his forehead, shadowing it. His silent gaze, inscrutable, passed over Harry’s stiff posture, and Harry noted there was concern pressed into the neutral lines of Theodore’s thin, pale face.

And then Theodore’s hand came up, the motion slow, and landed upon Harry’s shoulder. The weight of it felt heavier than it ought to. Too warm, too comfortable. Too familiar. The pressure of each individual digit against his robes, burning down into his skin.

“Harry,” said Theodore. The name came out soft, like a term of endearment.

Harry tried to form words around the tightness in his chest. But he couldn’t, he _wouldn’t,_ and so all he could do was drop his shoulder down and step back.

“Thanks,” Harry repeated, numb. A dismissal.

Another second stretched on, painful and heavy—

Theodore left.

The office door swung shut with a click, the reverberations from the wards on the room raising the hairs on the back of Harry’s arms and neck. He felt cold.

* * *

Harry Potter was no more.

Though Potter answered to his name when called upon, there was a detachment to the way he carried himself that spoke of calculation and restraint. Potter with his nose to the grindstone, attracting no notice, working silently behind the scenes.

Waiting, waiting, waiting—but for what? There were no thoughts of betrayal in Potter’s mind; Voldemort verified this himself on a regular basis. But Potter was hollow. He was devoid of the spark that had once made him so defiant.

There were still remnants of old from time to time; Potter still fought for others, still wanted to protect the helpless and the innocent. But it was a distant desire, an impulse far removed from the rest. The Occlumency lessons had reaped their rewards. The congested emotions that had previously plagued Potter’s mind to the point of paralysis were no longer influencing his actions and demeanour.

Potter was now a reflection of Voldemort’s ruthless proficiency and methodical capabilities.

But a hard worker with no ambitions could not exist. It was impossible to think the singular agreement to secure Potter’s loyalty to him had succeeded, yet it appeared that Potter had truly given his free will over to Voldemort’s reign.

Prior to the capture of Potter’s friends, Voldemort had initially drafted multiple plans to seal Potter’s allegiance. The cornerstones of Potter’s old life would have been chipped away until his mind was free of them. But those plans could now prove to be unnecessary—there was no need to leverage Potter further. Voldemort possessed information, had been giddy with the thought of using it, but now there was no need.

Potter’s idea of specific, emotion-triggered wards had been anchored at key points along the border, and there were now less false alarms than there had once been. Voldemort had been more merciful to those who were captured, as Potter had desired, but it remained that the wards would not have been possible without Potter’s original suggestion. The end result had succeeded. Weasley and Granger had been captured.

Sharing this knowledge would no doubt shatter the mask that Potter was now so desperately endeavouring to hold in place. Only there was no reason to do so now. Such information should have been shared on the day of their agreement, the day Potter had promised his best attempt at loyalty. But Voldemort had stayed his hand then, and now the opportunity was gone, at least for the time being.

Work at the Ministry continued to progress more smoothly than expected. Voldemort called his assistant ‘Harry’ rather than ‘Potter’, but even the use of first name rather than surname had little effect. Potter neither acted submissive, nor argued back. He was, evidently, resigned to his fate.

It had been a mere month with this new version of Harry Potter, but Voldemort found himself irritated. This was not what he had envisioned when he had asked for cooperation.

This numbness could not last. The suppression of a personality as vibrant as Potter’s was disappointing to behold. If Voldemort wanted a mindless servant then there were plenty to choose from, though Potter was admittedly a preferable choice.

Preference. That was the extent of the desire. Voldemort had never been fond of anyone—the exception lay with Nagini, who skirted the line between Horcrux and familiar and friend.

_But I’m different, aren’t I?_

Potter’s words, detached and withdrawn, resounded. No, Voldemort was not fond, but he was invested. Potter had potential, an innate affinity for serving his Lord. Potter was a conduit of inspiration, and he contained a wealth of fresh ideas. Valuable beyond existence as a Horcrux.

But time passed, and the distance remained. Potter holding himself far, far down, underneath sheets of thick, frosted glass, drowned beneath a sea of black, murky water, and Voldemort could no longer reach him.

* * *

When he was not occupied with matters of the state, Voldemort resided in his private office in the manor. He would summon Potter to his side, so that the younger man could settle into the chair and desk that Voldemort had provided for him.

In his spare time, Voldemort had been furthering his research on Horcruxes. In particular, he had searched for information about living Horcruxes. Unfortunately, Horcruxes themselves were so rare that Voldemort had begun to suspect that Nagini might have been the first living Horcrux ever created. The flattering knowledge that he had once again been the first to push such boundaries was counterbalanced by the lack of relevant reference material. Everything from this point onwards would be based on guesswork.

The tenuous connection between himself and Potter was powerful. This much he recognized, this much was immediately apparent whenever he touched upon Potter’s mind. It was only Occlumency that prevented the overflow of their minds into each other. The feeling of possession was potent, heady. To indulge was to permit an excess that led to unknown results.

All the more reason for Potter to master the art of Occlumency quickly. It would not do for any mistakes, for any moments of weakness. Potter would maintain his shields at all times unless he was asked to drop them, and in this way they would be protected from each other.

From across the room, Potter stirred, legs and arms stretching out. Though Voldemort knew too well the cramps one got from holding the same position for too long, he tended to ignore the stiffness, determined as he was to focus on his tasks.

Only Potter would rise every half hour or so to pace the room, claiming a need to move about.

It was a measure of timekeeping without needing to look at the clock. Just out of curiosity, Voldemort chanced a glance at the wooden clock pinned to the wall. Half an hour since the last walkabout, nearly to the minute. Preposterous.

Potter paced a slow circle in the cramped space, rotating his ankles. He kept his gaze on the floor while he continued his circuit. The first few times Potter had gotten up for a walk, he had knocked his feet against the desk legs, tripping over them.

So Voldemort had taken to calling Nagini whenever they were alone together. This had forced Potter to pay more attention to his surroundings, since otherwise he would have found himself sprawled on the floor next to Nagini’s irritated head.

“Harry.”

Potter looked up. Though his expression was impassive, Voldemort could make out the glint of fear in those green eyes. Without further prompting, Potter stepped over to the desk, eyes still downcast.

“Eyes up.”

Voldemort saw Potter’s jaw tick, clench and unclench, and then—

Potter straightened. Shoulders back, brow set. Not defiant, but… _strong._ Determined to emerge from the ordeal of having his mind perused without weakness showing.

Voldemort made eye contact; not probing, only waiting. Then, slowly, he felt Potter’s Occlumency shields drop away to nothing.

A typical day at the Ministry. The flashes of memories that Voldemort had come to expect. Forms and reports and summaries, and then the occasional visit from other employees. Meetings as well, though Voldemort was present for those.

The visuals swirled as Potter pushed more recollections to the forefront of his mind, rewinding through his day. Hours spent in the office, alternating between pacing and sitting. Pale face, sharp angles. Theodore Nott. Barty’s assistant. The two of them standing together. Standing close enough to touch. Potter’s smooth train of thought stuttered as Voldemort brought the memory to a halt.

“What _do_ you think about Theodore Nott, Harry?”

Potter licked his lips, his throat bobbing. “He’s smart. And useful. I can see why Crouch picked him to be his assistant.”

An answer lacking details. Possibly truthful, possibly a simple truth masking further information. The two men had bonded over their respective jobs, only today’s scene was flavoured with a distinct apprehension. There were gossamer threads that connected the memory to other, associated thoughts.

Voldemort did not bother to follow the threads down. He yanked, dragging them forward, and Potter’s mind reeled, resisting on impulse. But it was more efficient this way, to catch Potter off guard, to unveil all there was to know. The threads grew taut, hauling the tangled web of thoughts and feelings Potter had worked to keep tucked away into the forefront of their minds.

Potter gasped, his hips slamming into the desk as he fell forward, catching himself with his palms as he braced them on the surface of the table.

_Kindness. Fondness. Attraction. Connection. Memory._

Voldemort’s hand crossed the distance between them and landed atop of Potter’s, squeezing, and Potter’s hand jerked out of reach just as quickly, his head turning away, breaking the mind link.

But the damage was done. There was no hiding from the Dark Lord.

Potter panted, the breaths harsh and angry, his head still bowed and his face shadowed. 

Eventually, Potter’s breathing evened out. “You’re nothing alike,” Potter said, his voice hardly above a whisper.

Nott was lankier, his hair shades lighter, but his face was angular, high cheekbones with dark eyes set above them, and his manner was formal, stilted, witty charm—

“Dumbledore showed you more than he should have,” Voldemort said. “And yet his memories fail to do me justice.”

Tom Riddle had charmed an entire school, had charmed all of house Slytherin into following him, had charmed Hepzibah Smith into displaying her most prized possessions. And so Harry Potter, too, would have fallen to such charms. Hogwarts’ darling Muggleborn, rising star, Head Boy Tom Marvolo Riddle.

Potter’s eyes remained fixed upon the table, where his hands, clenched into fists, lay trembling.

“Do you find me charming, Harry? Do you find me to be kind?”

Silence loomed in the office like a shroud. Nagini slithered out from underneath the desk to examine the tension, her tongue flickering out to taste the heavy air.

Potter’s head twitched to the side, an echo of a negative response, but then he appeared to think better of it, for he went still.

“I do applaud you for having the taste to turn him down. Nott is useful, certainly. An intelligent young man, a diligent worker. But for all his ambitions, he will always be small minded, lacking vision, lacking conviction. He will never find or wield true power.”

Voldemort stood. Potter’s head lifted at last, following the motion. The two of them, former adversaries, now separated only by the physical barrier between them.

Potter shrunk down as Voldemort swept around the desk. But he did not shrink away, because that was not an option. His shoulders rounded, curling inward, his expression melting into blankness.

And then Voldemort placed his hand upon Potter’s shoulder, the way he had done many times before, and he felt Potter’s attempt to relax himself underneath the touch. To avoid the show of weakness.

“I will care for you, Harry. You have no need to think of anyone else while you remain here by my side. Attachment will make you weak. Affection for others will do you no good.”

Potter nodded at this, his head tilting upwards to meet Voldemort’s gaze. Green eyes, clear like emeralds. Full of the conviction that Voldemort had accused Nott of lacking.

“You have done well these past weeks,” Voldemort said, gentling his tone. “And I shall reward you for your behaviour. Would you like that?”

Potter nodded a second time, though the sides of his mouth slid downward.

Still no genuine engagement or reaction. Subservience had its use, but Potter was unique, special. Voldemort had chosen Potter as a Horcrux vessel. Such precious things deserved only the greatest care, the most delicate treatment. It would not do for Potter’s sense of self to waste away, to be trampled by his numbness and resignation.

“You hold a privileged position,” Voldemort said shrewdly. “You would do well to remember it.” His hand slid up the shoulder to the back of Potter’s neck, holding Potter in place. The skin there was very warm. The flow of the blood to the brain pulsed under the pads of his fingers.

Potter’s eyes slid shut, facial muscles twitching with the effort to hold still, to behave. At least, with whatever it was that Potter imagined proper behaviour to be.

“Do you miss our old arguments?” Voldemort murmured. “When you bargained for the lives of others, one rescued Mudblood at a time?”

“...I don’t know,” Potter said, voice raspy.

“But look at you _now,_ Harry. How you submit yourself to my mercy.” His hand trailed to the side, cupping Potter’s cheek and jaw. “You have learned this lesson well. But now, I think, it is past time for you to be reassured of my intentions.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so theodore snuck up on me... but who wouldn't like harry? harry is just the best. everyone likes him. 🥰🥰
> 
> as for voldemort... yeah he's sort of fond of harry now, he's just a dumbass about it fjdmshdkdkhd. him trying to be like I AM WAY COOLER THAN THEODORE NOTT and actually succeeding somewhat if only bc harry doesn't wanna get involved with anyone atm is just kind of sad.
> 
> as my friend hannah said to me, he's got inadequacy issues 😛
> 
> still dunno how many more chapters, per se. the theodore bit hit unexpectedly :/ as do most of my minor plots in this story 🥺. the most important thing to me while writing this is i keep the relationship between harry and voldemort realistic. so if that means more words, then we will all have to go through more words!
> 
> i am hoping to finish this story this month though, so fingers crossed for that. thanks for reading!


	17. Engagement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Voldemort slowed his steps, and Potter did the same. They turned to face each other. A mystifying heaviness settled upon Voldemort’s chest as he exhaled, soft breath fogging the space between them. His wand, still in hand, itched upwards, threatening. Potter eyed the wand, did not flinch, did not blink. Voldemort allowed his magic to gather—hot and deadly, charging the cold winter air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more theodore in this chapter 👀

The sun had settled a few hours before, leaving a dying wash of amber in its wake. Soon night would fall fully, plunging them into darkness. Though winter was drawing close to its end, the air outside remained frosty and bitter. Voldemort had pulled on a pair of dragonhide gloves to shield his hands from the inclement weather.

A pace behind him, Potter shivered, drawing his cloak closer to his chest. It was a thick black cloak of fine quality, with silver threads sewn into the material. The threads traced faint patterns across the upper back and shoulders. Narcissa’s choice, no doubt. Such taste and attention to detail Voldemort could only attribute to her. Narcissa was fond of Potter, perhaps due to the fact that her son was no longer residing in her home to be doted upon. The young Malfoy heir and his bride to be were constructing a new home for themselves and their potential children to live in.

And Potter would likely be invited to the Malfoy-Greengrass wedding, a thought which amused Voldemort to no end. Narcissa was clever to align herself closely with Potter. Such an invitation to Potter, who would feel obligated to attend, would result in the inevitable attendance of the Dark Lord.

Voldemort would have attended regardless; a favour to the Pureblood house that had served him faithfully since Abraxas Malfoy’s initial pledge of allegiance. But the additional treat of having Potter for company would make excellent entertainment.

As they drew deeper into the woods, Potter’s gaze wandered, ghosting over the surrounding trees. Potter was likely curious as to where they were going but was simply too stubborn to ask.

Nagini was also following them, winding around their feet as they progressed, and soon Potter’s attention was swallowed up by his attempt to navigate over both Nagini’s meandering path and the uneven forest floor.

After a minute or so of walking, Nagini spoke.

“ _Time to hunt, Masster?_ ”

Potter’s head snapped violently in Nagini’s direction, his foot catching on the ground as he went to topple forwards. Voldemort steadied him with a wave of wandless magic, holding Potter’s upper body in place and preventing him from falling.

Nagini angled her head towards Potter, hissing her amusement at his predicament.

“She will not harm you,” Voldemort said, releasing Potter from his suspension.

Potter’s mouth had flattened out. But he nodded, expression grim, and adjusted his clothing with anxious hands, his eyes flickering with wariness between Voldemort and Nagini.

“ _You may go,_ ” Voldemort added to his familiar.

“ _Not much tassty prey now,_ ” Nagini hissed. “ _Too cold._ ” Then she coiled herself up, waiting expectantly.

Voldemort’s lip curled without thought, but with a few short spells, he was able to transfigure some nearby rocks into rats for Nagini to chase.

“ _No eating,_ ” he chided her. The rats would revert to their natural form once his magic had worn off.

Nagini’s tongue flickered out, teasing, and then she vanished into the underbrush.

Potter’s eyes were fixed on the spot where Nagini’s tail had been. He seemed… surprised.

“Something to say?” Voldemort asked.

Potter swivelled back around, eyes involuntarily wide. “No,” Potter said, but his response was too quick to be casual.

“Parseltongue is the language of serpents,” Voldemort began. “A trait inherited from Salazar Slytherin; the mark of a powerful wizard. A skill which I possess by means of the blood that runs through my veins.”

Potter did not respond, and so they continued to walk in silence. Twigs snapped beneath their feet, and branches were waved aside as they continued. They grew closer to their destination, only Voldemort wanted Potter to _ask_ , and so he altered their path, curving it, and so their little walk stretched onwards. Voldemort was growing impatient, and if they went longer without a reaction, he would be forced to turn to more drastic measures.

“I could hear it.”

At this outburst, Voldemort turned to face Potter, curiosity peaked. In lieu of a verbal response, however, he merely raised a brow, waiting for Potter to elaborate. Had Nagini’s presence tipped the scales in favour of offering a response?

“What… Nagini… said.” Potter’s gaze flew upwards, towards the dark skies above. “I could hear it. And I could hear you responding.”

Voldemort felt his face twist into a scowl. “Parseltongue is not a _silent language,_ you understand.”

Potter’s own face scrunched up, his nose wrinkling. “I know.” Then Potter fell silent again, walking a few more steps before he added, “I heard you speaking like it was in English.”

Voldemort slowed his steps, and Potter did the same. They turned to face each other. A mystifying heaviness settled upon Voldemort’s chest as he exhaled, soft breath fogging the space between them. His wand, still in hand, itched upwards, threatening. Potter eyed the wand, did not flinch, did not blink. Voldemort allowed his magic to gather—hot and deadly, charging the cold winter air.

“Impossible,” he spat.

Potter held steady, posture tall, his voice firm as he said, “I wouldn’t lie.”

The scar on Potter’s forehead, previously made visible by the haircut Narcissa had bestowed upon him, was now partly covered by fringe. Potter’s hair was unruly, untidy. Reckless, like its owner.

Voldemort found himself drawn to the sight of the mark, his mark, etched into the skin. There was a piece of himself residing inside of Potter. Perhaps, then, it made sense that Potter could now speak the language of Slytherin’s heirs. It was a skill delivered along with the piece of his soul. What had once been only his claim to hold was now bestowed upon his Horcrux.

This logic calmed him, enabled him to speak in an even tone. “ _You hear my wordss?_ ”

“ _Yess,_ ” Potter answered. And then his forehead creased, as though he was taken aback by his own response. Potter’s jaw moved, stretching out and around—likely an attempt to discover the source of the new, unfamiliar sounds. “ _I can sspeak?_ ” Potter added in a quiet tone.

“ _You can sspeak,_ ” Voldemort confirmed. He deliberated a moment, then lowered his wand. In English, Voldemort continued, “You will learn the difference eventually. The feeling in the throat that produces the correct sounds.”

Potter cast his gaze to the forest again, but there were no creatures nearby; Nagini was far away, chasing after her prey. “Is there anything else?”

“Yes.” Voldemort waited until Potter looked over, until those green eyes made contact with his own. “I have decided to permit you leave of the manor. You will remain within the perimeter of the property, behind the wards. The weather has improved lately, and I believe the fresh air may do you some good.”

Potter’s mouth slid into a frown. “Alright. So I can leave whenever I want?”

“As long as you continue to perform to the expected standards, I see no reason to restrain you. I am a reasonable man, Harry.”

Potter’s jaw moved again, only this time it tightened. “Thank you,” Potter said, stiff.

So Voldemort stepped closer, passing the boundary of propriety until he could make out the faint flush of cold that stained Potter’s cheeks. Colour wrought by discomfort. Voldemort brushed the hair on Potter’s forehead aside with his gloved hand. Even the detached contact incited a powerful resonance—the harmonious energy that connected them despite the physical distance.

“It has been one month since you have passed into my service. You have sworn your loyalty to me, but you fail to engage. You are reluctant. I understand this, dear Harry, and I am willing to make an effort to encourage the level of enthusiasm I expect you to put forth. I desire a return to our previous state of affairs, only now you will be fully cooperative under my guidance.”

Potter blinked, dark lashes fluttering in slow motion. Voldemort could see himself reflected in Potter’s spectacles.

“And what does that mean for me?” Potter asked.

“You will find it within yourself to enjoy your work, make peace with your life—eternal as it will be—and move forward with purpose. There is no use for dissatisfaction within my ranks, and as you are my direct subordinate, I will not accept less than your best efforts. True loyalty, not this _reluctance_ you have given me.”

“But what if you don’t think I’m giving my best effort?”

It was obvious that Potter was expecting torture. Pain was something Potter understood; a concept he equated with servitude under Voldemort. But pain was not a useful tool in bringing Potter to heel. Potter had shown himself willing to suffer for strangers, such was the strength of his righteousness. Further physical harm would only solidify Potter against him, would undo the progress they had thus far accomplished.

“You may find less than desirable outcomes will occur. I have agreed to leave your two friends unharmed, but this protection does not extend to others.”

Potter’s hands clenched, his head turning away from Voldemort’s hand.

“I could see Theodore Nott moved out of Barty’s service. Perhaps to another office? I do believe your latest report from the DMLE suggested that there is room in the budget for additional patrols...” Voldemort let his voice trail, enjoying the way Potter’s profile grew sharp, tense.

“You don’t have to do that,” Potter said. “I’ve already agreed to do what you want. To work with you. You don’t need to use threats.”

“Once I have seen adequate changes in your behaviour,” Voldemort said, heedless of Potter’s plea. “I will grant you further concessions. More chances to save the lives you wish to save. Projects similar to the dragon pox vaccination.”

Potter’s eyes widened minutely at the offer, and Voldemort knew this was the way to the heart of the problem. Twisting Potter’s empathy to usefulness, offering the possible relief of innocents’ suffering as a soothing balm. This, the carrot to match the threat of the stick, would revive what had been lost in the period since Potter’s friends had been sent away.

And even if this did not succeed, the years stretched ahead of them, endless and inevitable; ample time to mold Potter into the perfect vessel, to channel Potter’s strength and defiance into productivity.

Voldemort took a step back, peeled off one of his dragonhide gloves and extended his hand. “Do we have an understanding, Harry?”

Potter wore no gloves; there was only the bare skin of the hand and palm, the neatly trimmed nails that grew out from the fingers. 

Magic pulsed when their palms met, when skin touched skin. Their latest agreement was now sealed.

* * *

After their newest agreement, the Dark Lord had walked them to the edge of the wards. The latest expansion of Harry’s gilded cage. The wards were dangerous, powerful, and keyed into Voldemort’s magic. Harry wasn’t foolish enough to think he could get past any of it. But after the Dark Lord had left, Harry remained for hours in the woods outside the manor, using the time alone to think.

It was difficult to settle on what it was, exactly, that the Dark Lord wanted from him. Enthusiasm was a tall order to fill, doubly so because Harry was genuinely unenthused about the entire business, and any attempts to play pretend would only result in being caught out once Voldemort probed his mind.

Harry recalled how their interactions had gone prior to their first deal. They had sat in his bedroom and discussed the creation and application of wards. Harry failed to see how that conversation had been interesting enough to provoke such a generous offer.

Because the offer _was_ generous. It was too tempting for Harry to pass on, underlying threats notwithstanding. In the time it had taken for them to reach this point, there had been plenty of negotiation. Harry had given up nearly everything: his life, his family, his free will. Yet Voldemort wanted more.

The Dark Lord had also spoken of guidance and effort. Harry was well aware he was being trained, being groomed to bear the position he now held by the Dark Lord’s side. A position he would hold forever. Perhaps it was Voldemort’s ego that had led to this—what better assistant could there be than one who housed a portion of his very soul?

The connection that existed between them, whatever it was, followed Harry wherever he went. Without the regular use of Occlumency, he could sense the void in the back of his mind; it was a window that led to the Dark Lord’s thoughts. Not that Harry would have ever been able to access said thoughts without Voldemort’s express allowance, but the existence of such a path was discomfiting at best.

If Harry was going to fall further down this rabbit hole, he needed something more substantial to hold onto. The knowledge that Ron and Hermione were safe wouldn’t be enough to keep him going. Not if he had to shed the thick layers of indifference he had been using to shield himself. He didn’t belong here, despite what the other Death Eaters seemed to think, despite what the Dark Lord wanted. This was not where he wanted to be. He was only trying to make the best of things.

But Theodore believed that Harry could find his place here, somehow. Theodore thought that his presence had worth—a positive impact on the small part of the world that they resided in. That he could make things better.

“ _Masster?_ ”

Harry pivoted slowly towards the sound. Nagini came into view, dead rat dangling from her mouth. Her scales shimmered even in the dim light of the evening. Magic, maybe. Or else the shine of her skin was just very reflective.

“ _He’ss not here,_ ” Harry said, swallowing uncomfortably around the syllables. “ _He went back insside._ ”

Nagini’s head rose higher, her body lifting from the forest floor. She watched Harry for a moment more, and then she returned to the ground, slithering away.

Albus had said Nagini was the closest companion to Voldemort. A creature familiar, but also the nearest thing to a friend that the Dark Lord had. Harry had kept the company of both of them long enough now that he felt this fact held true.

Nagini was certainly fond of her master, and the Dark Lord seemed inclined to indulge Nagini’s predator tendencies when he had the time to do so. It was a simple relationship, but it was a genuine one, one that indicated that Voldemort was capable of feeling… good emotions. Even if it was only because Nagini was a snake, not a person, and was also a Horcrux to boot.

Still, it was something. It was better than working for an emotionless robot. Harry would work with feelings, could understand them. Voldemort was immortal and powerful. But was he still human at heart? Did he still feel things the same way others did?

Voldemort had claimed to be reasonable. He had allowed Harry to negotiate with him in the past. Maybe that could go further. But before Harry could do any of that, he would need more information.

* * *

“Theodore? Can I ask you something?”

They were having lunch in the Minister’s office. Harry hadn’t asked whether or not this was allowed—mostly because he was fearful the answer would be _no_ —and so he had never pushed the matter with Theodore or the Dark Lord.

“Sure, Harry. What’s on your mind?” Theodore set his sandwich down upon its plate, bracing his forearms on the table as he inclined his head in Harry’s direction.

Theodore always listened attentively, like everything Harry had to say was interesting and important.

“The other day… you said that, um, things are better, now that I’m here. And I assume you meant things around the office,” Harry added, not wanting to stray from the serious topic he wanted them to discuss, “and so I was wondering what you meant by that.”

“Ah.” Theodore shifted, leaning back in his chair, legs uncrossing and recrossing. “You know, I often forget that you aren’t privy to all of the gossiping that goes on outside these walls.”

“Gossiping,” Harry repeated flatly. It shouldn’t come as a surprise that people were talking about him, but to have it confirmed was irritating all the same. He had his suspicions on what this gossiping would entail, but he decided to wait and see what Theodore said before he jumped to any conclusions.

“Well, yes. Not that I partake in any such conversations, but I do like to eavesdrop on them.” Theodore paused to offer Harry an easy grin. “Never know what might end up of use.”

“Slytherin through and through,” Harry said, wry.

“Exactly. But to return to your question, Harry, it’s a bit… hard to explain. Before you arrived here, you were on—to put it lightly—the other side of things. It may sound like I’m stating the obvious, but there was a marked difference between the two periods. Before you, and after you.”

“Before me,” Harry echoed.

Theodore shot him a look full of meaning—namely, a _‘you know exactly what difference I’m speaking of’_ look.

“The Dark Lord,” Theodore said carefully, “has had his burdens much relieved since you started working with us. As our Minister, his duties are numerous, and his job would be a stressful position for anyone to manage. Only our Lord has put forth great additional effort into a multitude of projects and endeavours that take up a great deal of his attention. He is extremely busy, his time is precious, and this is a fact that we, as his faithful servants, understand completely.”

Harry could read between the lines well enough. A stressed Voldemort was an unhappy Voldemort, and an unhappy Voldemort meant equally unhappy followers once the punishments were handed down.

“He doesn’t have much spare time,” Theodore continued, still maintaining eye contact, “and so what little free time he does have, he ought to be... _enjoying_ it.”

Harry felt his cheeks colour. “Not like that,” Harry said hastily, then clamped his mouth shut.

“I didn’t say anything of the sort,” Theodore said, lifting his hands in a placating motion. “I am merely the unfortunate messenger.”

“Anyways,” Harry said, “so what I’m hearing is he’s… in a better mood lately. Is that really all?”

“There are families and supporters he favours. Mr. Crouch, for one. The Lestranges, the Malfoys. The Blacks, before they all died off.” Then Theodore grimaced. “Sorry. I forgot about your—”

“It’s fine. Continue.”

“Well. Even those with his favour had become subject to... criticism. Standards were high, mistakes were unacceptable. As subjects of our Lord, we are expected to perform to our full potential. It was difficult to succeed, to reach such _optimistic_ goals.”

Harry was having difficulty wrapping his head around the double meaning of what Theodore was saying. Though Harry had seen Death Eaters disciplined by the Dark Lord before, it hadn’t ever occurred to him that it was irregular behaviour. It only made sense for Voldemort to rule over his followers by using fear, because Voldemort was the villain, and that was what villains did.

Only… before Tom Riddle had become a Dark Lord, he had won people over in other ways. With charisma and intellect. But now an entire nation grovelled at his feet, desperate to please, afraid of failure. There was no need for a gentle hand anymore.

“And now?” Harry asked, when it seemed Theodore wasn’t about to continue further.

“And now things are better. You’ve eased the burden, and everyone is in a better mood because of it.”

Harry frowned. “I only started working here properly about a month ago, though.”

Theodore made a noise that might have been a tsk of admonishment. “The spotlight, so to speak, is on you. The Dark Lord has little time for the petty qualms and minor infractions of his subjects when you pose a more _intriguing_ alternative.”

Harry shook his head. This still wasn’t making much sense to him, and thinking on it longer was only going to give him a headache. If there was an explanation for how the Dark Lord treated him, Theodore wasn’t able to say it outright without getting himself into trouble with Voldemort.

Theodore frowned, seeming to sense Harry’s mild distress. “Listen, Harry. I don’t consider myself an expert on these things, and Merlin knows that you’re higher up than I am at this point, so I doubt you’d be alright after thinking these sorts of thoughts, but—” Here Theodore paused again, pinching at the bridge of his nose in consternation. “But you have to see that there’s more to this than just you working here.”

“I already told you—it’s not like that.”

“And it doesn’t have to be.” Theodore scowled further, running a hand through his hair. “I just—fuck. Harry. I’m not saying it’s like that right now, or whatever it is you think I’m implying. But you—you’re _interesting,_ Harry. And I’m going to be slaughtered for saying this, but you’re attractive, and likeable, and maybe you’re just a trophy to him, but that doesn’t mean you’re not important.”

“I’m—” Harry started, then stopped, because he wasn’t sure how he had planned to end the sentence.

“He listens to you,” Theodore said. “That means something.”

Harry wanted to protest this, argue it. If he had so much sway, then why was he still here, bound and chained to the man he was prophesied to defeat? What power did Harry have in the position he had been all but forced into?

But deep down, Harry knew there was truth buried into those words. Because Voldemort did listen to him. Harry was the private audience that no other Death Eaters had ever been. Voldemort didn’t abide by all the moral standards that Harry attempted to hold him accountable for, but he did listen. He let Harry offer the so-called intriguing alternatives that were, apparently, what held the Dark Lord’s interest.

So Voldemort listened to him. That was better than nothing. It was the one thing that Harry had left to leverage, and he would have to use it.

Harry resumed eating his lunch, now thoughtful. Theodore raised a brow in response to Harry’s silence, but he said nothing, and so they continued the rest of their meal while Harry pondered over his situation.

“Theodore,” Harry said, after their food was gone and the lunch hour was near its end. “Do you think the Dark Lord is human?”

Theodore’s brows pulled together, his expression morphing into one of concern. “I’m not sure what you mean by that.”

“Nevermind,” Harry said. “Just an errant thought.”

“Alright.” Theodore watched Harry’s face, searching, and then he stood up. “I should get going, then.” He paused, straightening his robes, then added, “Lunch tomorrow?” 

Harry nodded. “If I’m here.”

“If you’re here,” Theodore echoed. He lingered by the door, his eyes fixed on where Harry was seated behind the desk. “Take care, Harry. I look forward to our next conversation together.”

Harry dropped his own gaze, thinking back to what the Dark Lord had said. If he had any sense at all, he would put a stop to this. If he was a good person, he would dissuade Theodore from stopping by for lunch because this association was never going to lead anywhere good for either of them. Especially if Harry embarked on the path he was now suspecting he would have to choose.

“Draco Malfoy is getting married this spring,” Harry said, looking up at last. “Are you going to the wedding?”

Theodore had already been halfway out the door, but now he pivoted to look at Harry once again, bewilderment clear on his face. “The Malfoy-Greengrass wedding?”

“Yes,” Harry said. He could feel his cheeks warming with embarrassment. “That one.”

“I was invited, yes,” Theodore said, incredulous. “Are _you_ going?”

“I hadn’t decided until just now,” Harry said, trying to inject some levity into his voice. “But now I think I might.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uh so, it'll be the wedding next chapter i guess? i hadn't planned on including it, but the opportunity just presented itself so beautifully that i couldn't resist.
> 
> not to lie for the millionth time or anything, but i better finish this fic this month or else i'm going to stage a protest against myself for being incorrigible and writing too many chapters for this story.
> 
> anyways. would appreciate thoughts and comments on this chapter, thanks for reading!


	18. Unity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Voldemort had ceased his regular Legilimency probes. Whatever he had seen in Harry’s mind, it had been sufficient enough to convince him to stay away. Harry wasn’t about to question this sudden good fortune, and so he had thrown himself into the monotony of his job, hoping to drown his mind in paperwork.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no outstanding warnings or comments for this chapter :)

Harry had been apprehensive about the Dark Lord’s impending Legilimency sweep. He wasn’t foolhardy enough to believe he could keep Voldemort out forever, but if he could just get past this one day, perhaps there was a chance he could protect Theodore from any potential backlash.

So before he arrived back at the manor, Harry took the time to compartmentalize. He sorted his thoughts from the day, burying the lunch conversation as far down as he could, covering it up with his sheer desire to _help,_ to make things _better._ Because that was the truth of it, that was the fierce determination that he could use to shield himself. Ron and Hermione had always said he saw the best in people. This was no different. He could convince himself it was no different.

As long as there was a chance, he had to try. He had to give the half-formed plan he was nursing in his head a proper go, or else he wouldn’t be able to justify any of this.

By the time Voldemort returned from wherever he’d been, Harry was falling asleep in his chair. Even so, the sudden appearance of the Dark Lord was enough to jolt him into wakefulness.

“Have you eaten?”

The clock on the far wall declared it to be eight in the evening. Harry shook his head. He had been too apprehensive to want to eat while he had been alone.

Voldemort summoned a House-Elf and put in a request for dinner, then moved to his desk, flicking through the few reports Harry had laid out for him. “Nothing important,” the Dark Lord said conversationally.

Harry watched as the Dark Lord set the reports aside and settled into his chair. Voldemort’s posture was relaxed, his expression pensive as he regarded Harry with his dark red eyes, like Harry was an exotic snake kept behind a panel of glass, perfect for observing.

“Nothing important,” Harry echoed. He kept his hands on his lap, kept his shoulders loose. He was glad for the distance between them at this moment, because Voldemort had a tendency to initiate physical contact.

It was customary by now for Harry to expect to be touched. Voldemort’s hand resting on his shoulder, or pressing against the small of his back. Those long fingers cupping his jaw or tracing an invisible noose around his neck.

As if summoned by the thought, Harry felt a shudder, not unlike the touch of an invisible hand, pass down his spine.

“Did you have a pleasant day?” The Dark Lord’s drawl was smooth and rich, slow like molasses, inviting further conversation.

“Yes, thank you,” Harry said.

Voldemort steepled his fingers, tilting his head, and the curve of his dark hair fell across his forehead, shadowing his eyes so that they looked nearly black instead of red. “Let us have a look, shall we?”

Harry straightened and made eye-contact. He kept the tension from flooding his body and threw up every ounce of compassion, every strand of moral fibre he possessed, all the while hoping it would be enough.

* * *

Narcissa came by for a visit a week before the wedding. Though her clothing and makeup were impeccable as always, her hair was up in a haphazard bun, loose tendrils curling around her slender face.

“Aren’t you busy?” Harry asked her. “With the wedding planning?”

“I _always_ have time to visit,” Narcissa said. She only sounded mildly condescending, which was a dead giveaway that she was more stressed than she was letting on.

“Did you not get my message?” Harry asked. “I told Dobby that I would be coming. And the Dark Lord, um, he’s coming as well.”

“I did,” Narcissa snapped out. Then she inhaled, eyelashes fluttering. When she next spoke, her tone was patient once more. “I appreciate your attendance. I know you and Draco were… less than amicable during your time together at Hogwarts.”

That was putting it lightly. Harry was fairly sure that Voldemort was surprised when Harry had requested to be able to attend. Everyone else likely expected him to be attending the wedding against his will.

“It’s not a problem,” Harry said. “I think it’ll be fun.”

Narcissa eyed him. “Yes. Fun.” She swept across the room to her usual chair and settled down into it. A tea tray appeared on the table beside her, and she poured herself a cup before offering the pot to Harry. Her limbs looked thinner, like a bird’s, as if one sharp motion would snap them. Narcissa did not look her age, Harry realized, but she was the age his parents would have been had they lived, if not older.

Harry was reminded of the fact that he would, presumably, outlive her, and his mouth soured at the thought, his stomach churning. He did not think any amount of tea would help him.

“I’m fine, thank you.” Harry sat down as well. He had his suspicions as to why she was here. 

Voldemort had ceased his regular Legilimency probes. Whatever he had seen in Harry’s mind, it was sufficient to convince him to stay away. Harry wasn’t about to question this sudden good fortune, and so he had thrown himself into the monotony of his job, hoping to drown his mind in paperwork.

All of that explained why Narcissa was here—not because she wanted to be, but because the Dark Lord had likely asked her to find out why Harry had a sudden desire to attend Draco Malfoy’s wedding.

“I hear your work at the Ministry is going well,” Narcissa began. “The dragon pox vaccine is completed?”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “Production’s already started. We’ll see the first few public doses going out very soon.”

“Wonderful news.” Narcissa smiled, her gaze warming slightly as she sipped at her tea. “Have there been any other recent developments?”

“Nothing yet. I don’t have any other major projects at the moment.”

Narcissa clucked her tongue at him. “A shame. Bright young men such as yourself ought to have ample opportunity to prove your worth. Why, just the other day I was telling Draco—”

Harry sat through her monologue, waiting to see if it had a point. By the time she was done talking, it seemed like it had just been another one of her little stories rather than an attempt to fish for information. Harry did feel bad that she was here instead of wherever she actually wanted to be, but if he was being honest, she looked as though she needed the break.

When she stood up to leave there were tight lines around her eyes, and Harry knew she was worried about her failure to uncover insights for the Dark Lord.

“Mrs. Malfoy?” said Harry.

“Please, call me Narcissa. I’m sure I’ve mentioned this before.”

“Narcissa,” he repeated. “I just wanted to thank you. For everything you’ve done for me. I appreciate the olive branch extended by you and your husband, and I look forward to seeing you at the wedding.”

Shock splashed across Narcissa’s face, her eyes wide and her lips dropping into an ‘o’ shape. “Yes,” she said, obviously flustered. Then she recovered, blinking slowly, satisfaction stealing across her features. “You’re very welcome, Harry, but it isn’t any trouble. Sirius was both my cousin and your godfather. I would do anything for my family, and you have become quite dear to me these past few months.”

Harry wasn’t sure how seriously he was able to take that statement, because the first time they’d met here in this mansion he’d been in a padded cell and she’d been his assigned jailor.

But in the spirit of neutrality, or maybe even some friendliness, he could go along with this. Narcissa had not been cruel, and she had offered aid. The Slytherin part of him that once wished to use her to their advantage had at last surfaced.

Narcissa hovered in the doorway a second longer. “I shall see you at the wedding,” she said with finality, inclining her head in the slightest gesture of respect. “Until then.”

* * *

The day of the Malfoy-Greengrass wedding was warm and sunny. A spring wedding as planned, with beautiful arrangements of orchids and bluebells set onto tall white pedestals spaced around the venue. Harry wasn’t quite sure where they were, as he had never been to many fancy places before, but the surrounding gardens were utterly beautiful, and Harry had no doubt that the inside of the grandiose, towering manor behind them would be just as luxurious.

Harry and the Dark Lord were seated in the front row across from where Astoria’s parents would be.

The Dark Lord was dressed in quality robes with silver and green trimmings. Though the patterns and trimmings were simple, the cut was fashionable, and the material was expensive.

Usually, Harry went out of his way to dress as plainly as possible, but in this case he had made the exception and asked Voldemort to choose for him. This request had pleased the Dark Lord, who had told Harry not to worry and that his outfit would be taken care of.

So Harry was now wearing a handsome green waistcoat in addition to his dress shirt and dress robes, and there were snake accents on his belt and shoe clasps. There was also a heavy cloak to go with it all, only the cloak was really too cumbersome and unsuited to the weather, so it was now hanging somewhere amongst the rest of the cloaks and coats that the Malfoy House-Elves had taken at the entrance.

Since this was a wedding between two wealthy families, Harry fully expected the entire ordeal to take upwards of six hours. There would be the ceremony, the reception, the dinner, and then the dancing. Harry really hoped that no one was expecting him to dance, though he suspected Narcissa would convince him to make an attempt at it.

Voldemort had been silent and solemn for most of the morning. Harry wondered what the Dark Lord was thinking about; if he attended weddings often, and if so, what he thought of them. Perhaps attending the wedding was a chore, something he did for appearance’s sake. Because the Malfoys were a rich and powerful family, part of the Dark Lord’s inner circle of valued Death Eaters, and that meant they were given preference.

“Nice weather we’re having,” Harry said in a low voice, just to see what sort of response he’d get.

The Dark Lord turned to look at him. Voldemort’s jaw twitched, perhaps with mirth, perhaps with incredulity, and Harry had to suppress a sudden urge to grin.

“The _weather,_ ” Voldemort said, as though to check whether he had heard correctly.

Harry nodded, tight-lipped, thinking maybe he’d finally gone mad and that was what had prompted him to make small talk with the Dark Lord. “Mhmm.”

“I suppose you have been making good use of it,” Voldemort allowed. “The nice weather, that is.”

Harry had taken advantage of the Dark Lord’s continued generosity and gone for a walk whenever he had had time.

But whenever Harry went outside, Nagini was there. Not always nearby, but typically she was somewhere in the woods, which meant that Harry would catch frequent glimpses as he stomped around the grounds. Nagini had also spoken to him a few times. The Dark Lord must have asked her to keep track of Harry whenever he ventured outside of the manor.

“Yeah,” Harry said. “Thank you for that, by the way.”

Voldemort’s scrutiny fell upon him again, weightier than before. Harry felt the telltale brush of surface Legilimency across his mental shields. He could now recognize that touch at any distance; it was a part of him.

And so Harry was calm. He had nothing to hide, his intentions were good, and he meant no harm.

Voldemort must have been satisfied with the response he perceived because he returned his attention to the front of the venue.

More minutes dragged on. Harry shuffled in place on his chair. It was a comfortable chair—he just couldn’t seem to get comfortable on it. 

“Are we here early?” Harry asked.

“Yes.”

Harry wished he had a way to tell the time, or at least a better excuse to ask for one. All the places he was allowed in had clocks on the walls, and when he was outside on his own it tended to be late at night, when the hour didn’t matter.

A pair of workers scuttled past them, heads ducked low, arms encumbered by armfuls of shrunken wooden boxes.

“Harry!”

Harry jolted upright. Theodore’s voice, Harry thought as he swung around.

Theodore dressed in black robes with a pinstripe pattern, a pretty woman hanging onto his arm, whispering in his ear. She was vaguely familiar and reminded Harry mostly of Narcissa, who held herself with a similar elegance and confidence.

Voldemort, too, turned to look as the pair came closer.

“Theodore. Daphne,” said Voldemort.

Daphne curtsied, her hair falling across her shoulders as she dropped down. “My Lord.”

Theodore inclined his head and bowed at the waist, echoing Daphne’s greeting, though when he straightened, his eyes strayed to where Harry was seated.

“My congratulations to your sister,” Voldemort said to Daphne.

“She and Draco are both thrilled that you are here to celebrate this day with us,” Daphne said.

Voldemort smiled thinly. “It is a pleasure to be here.”

Daphne nodded, eager to please. “Thank you for coming.”

“I have yet to see the bride or the groom,” Voldemort said, voice neutral. “And the workers do seem… _rushed._ Do you require any assistance?”

“Everything is well in hand,” Daphne said. Her words were steady, her features relaxed. “My sister and her fiancee are very much in love, and all of us simply wish for this to be the best wedding it can be.”

“I do recall Lucius and Narcissa disapproved of the match at first,” Voldemort said. “I am pleased that everyone reached an agreement.”

Daphne offered a response that Harry didn’t care for, partly because he had heard all of this from Narcissa already, and so the conversation went on while Harry sat there and Theodore stood there, neither of them willing to speak candidly given their present company.

This was the first time in a while that Harry had seen both Theodore and the Dark Lord together, so Harry paused to take in the comparison that the Dark Lord had previously plucked out of his subconscious mind.

Theodore was much taller than Harry. At Hogwarts, Theodore had been slim to the point of which most would describe as ‘weedy’. Now, however, Theodore had grown into his height, shedding that awkward adolescence Harry had only ever peripherally witnessed. Because Harry had never paid attention to anyone at Hogwarts if he could help it; his parents had told him to keep his head down and his mouth shut.

In front of Harry, Daphne had finished speaking. Their conversation had ended. Harry focused long enough to say goodbye to her and Theodore, and then returned to his musings, all the while heavily aware of the man seated beside him.

Voldemort was tall, but his shoulders were broader, and even as a teenager at Hogwarts, he had always embodied a sort of brazen confidence with the way he carried himself. It was an aura that implied intimidation—a coiled snake lying in wait. The Dark Lord spelled danger, as all things that appeared dark and attractive did.

It was difficult for Harry to determine how his brain had made the leap between Theodore and Voldemort. They were two vastly different people; they had contradictory backgrounds.

But there _were_ similarities. 

Theodore was a reserved person. He rarely spoke about himself; he tended to ask after Harry’s wellbeing instead. He was polite and well-spoken, mindful and perceptive.

And Voldemort, well… Harry wouldn’t go so far as to say that Voldemort _cared,_ but there was an element of caretaking involved while Harry lived at the Dark Lord’s manor and worked as the Minister’s personal assistant. But no, that still wasn’t quite it.

“You intrigue him.”

Harry stiffened without meaning to. He relaxed himself with some difficulty, then met Voldemort’s eyes. “Intrigue?” he asked. He would not ask who they were talking about because that would give up a piece of control that Harry did not want to relinquish.

“He finds you _amusing,_ dear Harry. A charming crossword puzzle he has yet to complete.”

That did not ring true to Harry, who felt he had a better understanding of what Theodore was thinking than the Dark Lord did. So he said nothing, only nodded. The term of endearment prefixed to his name did not escape him either.

A deliberate attempt to unnerve him? Or something more calculated.

Harry was worried what would happen to him upon finding out the answer.

* * *

The wedding ceremony ended faster than Harry had expected. Astoria and Draco had opted for a shorter, more modern version of the traditional wizarding formalities. As someone who had listened to Narcissa’s endless devotion to tradition and detail, Harry marvelled at the convincing the newlyweds must have done in order to get Lady Malfoy to change her mind.

The reception was lavish. Ivory and ochre, with more flowers strewn about in garlands along the walls. Astoria and Draco made a beeline for Harry and the Dark Lord as soon as they appeared in the grand foyer.

“My Lord,” Draco said. “Thank you for coming. My wife and I are honoured to have you here.”

“You make a very lovely couple,” Voldemort said. “You have my congratulations.”

“Congratulations,” Harry added. “Thank you for the invitation.”

Though Draco’s expression implied neutrality at best, Astoria smiled, her cheeks dimpling. “It’s nice of you to come, Harry,” she said. “Narcissa told me you weren’t sure if you could attend. I expect it must be very busy at the Ministry now that the distribution for the dragon pox cure is underway?”

“Yes,” Harry said. “There’s been a lot going on, but I expect things will settle down once all of the initial, y’know, backlash is over.”

Astoria made a sympathetic noise in response. “I know Draco and his family are very grateful for the work you have done.”

Draco cleared his throat. “Yes. Very much so. If there is anything within my power to help you with, you need only ask.”

The light touch of fingertips pressed against Harry’s lower back as the Dark Lord chuckled. It took a while for Harry to find the source of Voldemort’s amusement, but when Draco’s jaw stiffened, Harry thought he knew exactly what it was that Voldemort found funny.

Because this was what Voldemort had done: he had risen to power, and all those who would have once laughed at him for his Muggle surname were now forced to bow, to curry favour, to plead for mercy from their generous Lord.

And Harry, a half-blood with a childhood rivalry ten years gone, was now in a position of power over Draco Malfoy.

“Thanks,” Harry said. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

A camera flashed from somewhere in the corner, momentarily blinding Harry’s vision. Draco cursed under his breath and wandered off in the direction of the camera person, likely to deliver a scathing admonishment.

“I’m very sorry about that,” Astoria said nervously. “We hired photographers for the wedding. If you don’t want the photos to be kept, we’ll ensure they’re destroyed, my Lord—”

“No need,” said Voldemort. “In fact, do have them sent my way. I’d like to see them.”

Draco returned just then, his mouth open, prepared to offer apologies, only Astoria gripped his arm and shook her head.

“We will be sure to do so,” Astoria said. “Thank you.”

Astoria smiled again, inclined her head, and led her husband away to greet their other guests.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> harry's plan is intentionally vague for two reasons; one, to keep you all on your toes, and two, because harry deliberately avoids solidifying it beyond its current nebulous form in the hopes that he will hold up better under legilimency. 
> 
> it's a very dangerous dance between these two... even writing it low key stresses me out lmfao.
> 
> next chapter: harry asks voldemort about love. and no, i am not kidding about this.
> 
> as always, your thoughts and comments are appreciated! :)


	19. Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry had once hoped to join the Aurors as a spy, like his father, but those hopes had been dashed shortly after his seventeenth birthday. His parents had died, and all that Harry had been left with was an overwhelming desire to see Voldemort's empire topple to the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no heavy tw for this chapter other than harry does get triggered by something that happens, but nothing comes of it, so the end result is fine.

“A dance, Harry?”

Harry’s heart leapt into his throat. “I don’t dance,” he said thickly. It didn’t seem like a good idea, what with all of the people around them, watching.

“It’s a wedding,” said Theodore, his gaze full of warmth. “No one’s going to judge your dancing skills.”

Harry huffed a laugh. “You’re bold, you know that?”

Theodore grinned. “What’s life without a bit of thrill? Come,” he added, holding his hand out. “Our Lord is dancing with the lovely bride. He could hardly fault me for keeping his lonely assistant company.”

Oh, but he _could,_ which was exactly what Harry was worried about. “I don’t think we should,” Harry said. “I’ll just end up stepping on your feet.”

“Come,” Theodore repeated, curling his fingers up in invitation. “I promise you won’t regret it.”

“How many drinks have you had?” Harry asked, but the teasing tone he’d tried to implement fell flat to his own ears. Promises like that… they couldn’t hold.

Theodore edged closer, still reaching for Harry’s hand. “Only two. I’m very sober, Harry. I know what I’m asking.”

Harry cast his gaze to where Astoria Greengrass was currently situated in the Dark Lord’s arms. Perhaps Harry should have taken Narcissa’s offer to dance. At least dancing with her would have been safe.

Dancing with Theodore, no matter how appealing it was, would be a mistake. Harry didn’t understand why Theodore continued to try despite the danger their continued association posed.

_You intrigue him,_ the Dark Lord had said.

But hadn’t Theodore said the same thing about Voldemort? That Harry was ‘interesting’? Harry saw things and did things differently because of how he’d been raised, because he was a Gryffindor, because he had _morals._

Theodore saw him as a person. Harry was fairly sure of that. And Voldemort—Voldemort saw him as a trophy, a Horcrux, a lab rat to toy with. Voldemort had not taken action yet, despite knowing that Harry and Theodore had grown close, but that would not necessarily last.

So this was risky, but it was something Harry wanted to do because he liked Theodore. And if this had been any other situation, Harry might have been extremely flattered at being asked to dance. Only this was not just _any_ situation, and although Theodore seemed to accept the risk he was taking, Harry was unsure if he wanted to make that leap.

“We’re just friends,” Harry said.

“We are,” Theodore said, somber. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy ourselves.”

Harry’s insides gave a horrid lurch at that, because what Theodore was offering—just friendship, no strings attached—was too good to be true given the nightmare of the past few months.

“Harry,” said Theodore, eyes pleading. “Just one dance?”

“One dance,” Harry said, relenting, already cursing his own weakness. “That’s it.”

Theodore pulled Harry to his feet and swept them onto the dance floor, where the lights glittered overhead. Harry could forget his troubles for the time it took for the current song to play to its end.

* * *

Much later, once Harry and the Dark Lord had returned to the manor, they retired in the study. It was now close to midnight, and Harry was drained. They settled into the armchairs by the empty fireplace, as was their habit to do.

It was unerringly domestic, Harry thought distractedly. That they had chairs they sat in, places they spent time together in.

“Did you enjoy yourself?” Voldemort asked. His voice was quiet, but it sounded very clear in the silence of the room.

“Yeah,” Harry said. “It was nice.”

“There are other events you could attend, if you wished. Ministry galas.”

Harry didn’t answer right away. Did he want to attend other events? Was there a benefit for him to do so? Harry didn’t care for mingling, and he was only acquainted with a few people in the Dark Lord’s inner circle. To attend a public event would invite a lot of exposure that Harry wasn’t sure he was ready for.

But Harry was expected to show _enthusiasm,_ and he also needed time for his own ideas to come together.

“That… might be nice,” he allowed. “I think I wouldn’t mind giving it a go.”

Voldemort only hummed in response. He was in a good mood, perhaps, if he wasn’t making snarky comments. A good mood was safer than a darker, more dangerous one, so it would be in Harry’s best interests to leave him be.

"What did you think of the wedding?" Harry asked. "I know it was less traditional than the usual ones. Narcissa and Astoria got into, um, fights over it."

Narcissa had spoken of arguments plenty of times, and Harry had lent her a sympathetic ear, but it had still been surprising to him that they’d forgone tradition almost completely. He hadn’t thought that Narcissa could _lose_ arguments, but that appeared to have been the case.

Voldemort exhaled, his posture relaxing further yet. "It was better than most. The young couple has taste, the same of which cannot be said for many of their peers."

Harry nodded as though he had the experience of having attended many weddings in the past. Most ceremonies conducted by the Order had been functional rather than celebratory, and so Harry had grown used to bearing witness only to the simple vows people had written for each other.

His childhood was an odd mix of public and private living. Harry had been permitted to attend Hogwarts for all seven years of schooling, but following the end of his education he'd been mostly in isolation, working with the Order of the Phoenix.

Harry had once hoped to join the Aurors as a spy, like his father, but those hopes had been dashed shortly after his seventeenth birthday. His parents had died, and all that Harry had been left with was an overwhelming desire to see Voldemort's empire topple to the ground.

If his parents were to see him now... Harry wondered what they would think of what had become of him.

"What do you think of the couple?" Harry asked, just to distract himself. "Are they a good match? I don't know much about the Greengrass family, but the two of them seem really happy together."

"I do not make a point of heeding the idle gossip of my followers," Voldemort mused. "So I cannot say for certain whether it is a love match. Given Lucius and Narcissa's original disapproval, I would assume it was."

Voldemort had to be in a good mood if he was entertaining the meaningless topic of Draco Malfoy's love life. So Harry felt safe in pressing the topic further to ascertain more of the information he was curious about.

"So do you? Think it's love."

“An interesting question. I do recall a certain mentor of yours touted the power of such an ideal, did he not?”

“And look where it landed me,” Harry answered the Dark Lord’s leading question, unimpressed.

Voldemort laughed. “You do amuse me, Harry.” Then he stretched, rolling his neck and shoulders. “To answer your question: it may be, it may not. You are not as young as those hormonal teenagers ensconced inside broom closets at Hogwarts, but you are still young enough, and rather inexperienced. I have no doubt that the marriage we witnessed today will last. Whether they last out of love or obligation is another matter entirely. People are fickle, and minds will change. Love is not eternal.”

“But you are. And… and I am.”

“We are.” The tone of contentment was back. “Which is why I let your little infatuation with Theodore Nott pass. Because it _will_ pass, and you will remain mine above all others.”

“It’s not an infatuation,” Harry said, irritated. Not a moment after he spoke, he regretted letting the denial slip out because the Dark Lord had just promised mercy, and here Harry was, fucking it up.

But Voldemort only smiled. “Oh? Is it _love,_ then?”

“No,” Harry said, quieter now. “We’re just friends.”

Voldemort withdrew his wand, and Harry twitched at the sight of it, bone white in the darkness. “Do not worry. I have said I would let it stand, have I not? Your behaviour has improved, and I am a man of my word—you may continue your little… association, if that is what you wish. But see to it that it goes no further than that.”

Harry kept quiet as the Dark Lord lit the fireplace with his magic, as embers sparked into flames, filling the study with a faint orange glow.

“Am I really that interesting?” Harry asked, once the fire was going strong and the room had warmed by a few degrees.

A derisive noise escaped Voldemort’s throat. “What must it be like to find yourself so boring that the mere idea of someone’s interest sends your self-esteem into hysterics?”

“I don’t,” Harry said, heat rising in his face as he sat up, incensed. “I’m not in _hysterics._ It just doesn’t make sense in this scenario, that’s all.”  
  


Voldemort sat up a bit, his face falling into a mild frown. “I would choose your words carefully from here,” Voldemort warned. “What is it about this scenario that you imagine diminishes your worth?”

“It’s just…” Harry trailed off, unsure why Voldemort was suddenly threatening him. He tried to think of a neutral way to phrase his thoughts that wouldn’t be offensive. “I’m not really, um, free to be in a relationship? At the moment. Or ever, really. Because, like I said, we’re going to be around forever. Which means that it won’t—it won’t last.”

Though Harry had always known this, being forced to say it aloud made his hands tremble where they rested on his knees.

What did any of this matter when the only cornerstone for the rest of Harry’s life would be the Dark Lord? He had told himself this many times, but the implications had been blotted out by fear and denial.

Everyone he knew would someday die.

Though he couldn’t quite imagine it yet, he was sure that eventually it would sink in. He would be alone.

Voldemort shifted back, pensiveness stealing over his face like a veil. Harry’s answer must have been what he had wanted to hear.

Harry swallowed. “What do you think it will be like? Living forever.” He sounded plaintive, like a child, but he was—he was _afraid,_ and in this there was only one person he could turn to for answers.

“I imagine it feels much like living day to day already does,” Voldemort said, dismissive.

Harry thought back to those early days spent in the padded room. The weeks he had spent there now blurred into one singular, agonizing memory. Despair warring with anger, anguish slamming up against the monotony of another endless period of time spent staring at the blank walls.

“But won’t that get boring?” Harry asked.

Voldemort peered at him, seeming curious. “How could you ever tire of living, Harry, when the world has so much to offer us?”

Harry didn’t think it had much to offer him at the moment. “What do you enjoy about the world, then?” Harry asked. “Other than… being the Minister for Magic.”

“While such a job is not wholly fulfilling on its own, there are aspects that I find myself savouring,” Voldemort said. “As I have mentioned, I do intend to elevate our society. This will be accomplished through continuous research, pushing the boundaries of magic, expanding our awareness of the world we live in. And in addition to this, the recruitment of others to our cause.”

Harry couldn’t help the minor distaste he felt at this statement, and it must have shown on his face because Voldemort continued, tone sharpening—

“You’ve been highly privileged with your work at the Ministry. Have I not promised you future projects of interest? Do you not find your current work enjoyable?”

“I’m—I’m grateful,” Harry stuttered out. “I just, um, you know, wish we could use other methods. To recruit people.”

Voldemort stood up. Harry’s nerves _screamed_ in response, but he kept his feet planted on the floor and stiffened his hands to prevent them from shaking.

The Dark Lord swept towards the door, opening it. “Come,” he said, and Harry thought it sounded less demanding than usual so he rose with haste and went to follow.

* * *

Harry trailed behind as they went through the manor, towards the left wing. Voldemort was not exhibiting any of the signs Harry had come to associate with anger or irritation, but that didn’t mean Harry was safe. Harry could imagine an endless number of things that would put the Dark Lord in a good mood but still horrify Harry to no end.

It was only as they approached the end of the hallway that Harry finally connected a reason to the increasing sense of unease that was creeping all over his skin.

“No,” Harry said. Hysteria was now truly threatening to consume him, despite Voldemort’s earlier taunting. “Please, I’m _sorry_ —don’t—”

“Quiet,” said Voldemort. “You are safe. You will keep your current room. I am not displeased with you.”

Harry shut his mouth and watched as Voldemort unlocked the door that led downstairs, where the prisoner cells were located. To where Harry’s cell was located.

They descended, the torches on the walls lighting up as they passed by. It felt like the walls were closing in on him, heightening his anxiety further. Harry had never liked enclosed spaces much, and his time in captivity had only served to worsen that phobia.

Harry forced himself to speak. “Where are we going?”

They hit the bottom of the stairs and continued onwards. “To prove a point,” Voldemort said.

At the end of the hallway, the familiar entrance materialized into the wall. Harry could see the white walls within. The clean, cushioned padding. His breathing grew louder and louder, roaring in his ears, making him dizzy, and he had to blink multiple times to clear his vision.

Voldemort lit his wand and gazed dispassionately into the room. They were meters away from the door, but the room was close enough that Harry’s stomach threatened to lose the meal he’d eaten only hours earlier at the wedding.

“It may interest you to know,” Voldemort began, “that before you came under my care, this room was used as a torture chamber for insurgents.”

Harry did not find it interesting, and it didn’t make him feel better either, so he said nothing. He would wait to see what would happen.

The yew wand twirled in Voldemort’s hand. “I have little need of it anymore, wouldn’t you say?”

“I—I guess?”

“Are you familiar with Fiendfyre?” Voldemort’s tone, still conversational, was at odds with the open room before them.

“Yes,” Harry said, confused.

And then Voldemort’s wand light died.

It was instantly replaced by a blinding blaze of fire erupting from the tip—a molten stream that burst into an assortment of chimeras and dragons and hippogriffs that all charged forwards, melting the walls and the floor around them.

Harry’s face broke out into sweat from the sheer amount of heat that was emitting from the fire, the _Fiendfyre._ A fearful glance revealed that the Dark Lord was unfazed by all this. Even the drain of such powerful dark magic failed to disturb the shroud of calmness draped over him.

Not a second later, the spell ended, the fire cutting out as cleanly as it had begun. Smoke poured out of the open entrance, which Voldemort sealed with another careless gesture of his wand.

What now? Harry wasn’t sure what to make of this. The room was gone. He was free of it. Though another room could be created just as easily, Voldemort had brought him here to prove a point, as he had said. So there would be no more padded rooms. That was the message Voldemort was sending.

Voldemort stowed his wand away and glanced over at Harry to discern a reaction.

“Does this reassure you?” he asked.

It did. It absolutely did. Harry gazed up, meeting those crimson eyes with his own. He had gone back and forth—having it, not having it—but now, looking at the charred outline of the door in the wall, inhaling the smoky refuse of the ruined prison cell, Harry thought he finally had something to hope for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> have you now guessed what harry is going to try to do? maybe think back on what voldemort originally wanted out of this arrangement...
> 
> next up: serious time skips. if i don't use at least one major time skip please call me out on it lmao
> 
> anyways, you are all great readers, and i'd love to hear what you think of this chapter!


	20. Theodore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The summer journey, Voldemort hoped, would give the young man further distraction from his occasional bouts of moodiness. Harry would forget the misery of missing his friends, would see the world in its splendour, all that it offered them, the vast expanse of it that they would have all of eternity to partake and explore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok i am sorry for the ending of this chapter but it had to happen :<

Following the destruction of Harry’s old room, relations were much improved. Harry was engaged and interested; he asked questions, he followed along at a rapid pace, and he performed to the standards at which Voldemort had originally hoped to achieve.

Even the occasional sweep of Legilimency was a mere precaution at this point.

As promised, Voldemort had provided leniency, had given Harry projects of his own choosing to work on. Projects involving volunteer service, projects involving young children. All of these were developments to appease a restless and worried public following the slow reduction of dragon pox cases, and so both Voldemort and Harry were kept busy throughout all of spring, hard at work on restoring the public's faith in the Ministry.

Busy as they were, rarely did the Dark Lord traverse the halls of the Ministry without Harry Potter by his side. Voldemort had even allowed Harry free roam of most of the manor so that Harry could peruse the library if he so wished, and so he could also utilize the study even when Voldemort was not present.

They had little time for walks outside, but when Harry did wish to venture onto the grounds, Voldemort would join him. And so they would walk, with Nagini shadowing their steps and offering commentary on their surroundings. Voldemort would loan Harry a wand, and then watch as Harry transfigured prey for her to chase, an action that certainly rose his value in Nagini’s eyes.

When the rush of work at last wound down, Voldemort felt it time to further extend his generosity. Harry had proven himself reasonable and competent, and Voldemort was now used to their long conversations on this or that, with Harry offering his opinions on everything from cellular technology to the regulations around the treatment of dragons.

So it was a late Saturday evening when Voldemort directed Harry into his study. Harry settled into his chair without question; he even looked comfortable in it. A tray bearing fruit and wine popped into existence beside them, and Voldemort filled a glass for himself, trusting that Harry would partake if he wished.

“I have something for you," Voldemort said.

“Oh?” Harry perked up, eager. “Is it another project?”

Voldemort summoned a large plain envelope into his hands. “A gesture of my continued good will, Harry. Proof of my word given to you, and also a memento for your personal keeping.”

Harry took the envelope carefully, cradling it. “What is it?” he asked, voice soft.

“Open and see for yourself.”

Harry untucked the flap and shook the contents out onto his lap.

Inside the envelope were photographs—wizarding ones—of his beloved friends. Most of the shots had been taken at range, but there were some happy moments that had been captured up close. Granger and Weasley, their physical appearances altered in minor ways, but still recognizable, somewhat, as themselves.

“I acknowledge that you asked for distance from this,” Voldemort said. “But I felt that you would prefer to see them alive and well, knowing that they are living the comfortable, untroubled life you envisioned for them. Am I correct in having anticipated this change of heart?”

“Yes,” Harry whispered. His finger traced over the faces, trembling. His eyes were fixed firmly on the photos, but his vision was glassy, rife with emotion.

Satisfied with the reaction he had wrought, Voldemort retrieved an orange from the tea tray and began to peel it with wandless magic.

Then, after a long period of time filled only by the ticking of the clock on the wall, Harry added, “Thank you, sir.”

Harry never referred to him as ‘Lord’, and Voldemort had found that the current mode of address was satisfactory. Perhaps with more time, Harry would be convinced to acknowledge Voldemort’s lordship, and at that point Voldemort would reconsider whether it was necessary.

“I can keep these?” Harry asked, tentative.

“They are yours to keep,” Voldemort responded.

Harry tucked the photos away and placed the envelope delicately onto the table next to him. “Thank you,” Harry said again.

“You are most welcome, dear Harry. Now, there is another, less related subject I wished to discuss with you…”

They delved into talk of work, only Harry’s bright eyes would stray every so often to the envelope on the table, and Voldemort felt a hum of satisfaction spread through him as they continued to speak late into the evening, long after the food and drink were gone.

Eventually, Harry fell asleep in his chair, body slumped, mouth slack. Voldemort debated waking him, debated levitating him to his room. In the end, however, Voldemort settled on leaving Harry in the study to spend the night. It was a plush chair, and Harry was a young man in fit shape. A night’s rest in a chair would not do him harm.

Voldemort checked the empty fireplace, then cast a few Warming Charms on Harry’s unconscious form. Those ought to hold until morning.

One last look—dark, shaggy hair, glasses sliding down the bridge of the nose—and Voldemort left, shutting the door quietly behind him.

* * *

_“When will we leave the manssion next? Masster?”_

They were strolling the woods, Nagini coiled up in Harry’s arms. She claimed that Harry was warmer than Voldemort, more comfortable, and that therefore Harry ought to be the one carrying her when she didn’t feel like moving. Voldemort had called her lazy and chastised her for taking advantage. Only Harry had said, sheepishly so, that he didn’t mind holding her.

This was how they had ended up in their current situation: Nagini’s head peering up and over Harry’s shoulder, her entire body bobbing up and down with each footstep Harry took.

_“I have no tripss planned abroad for the next while,”_ Voldemort told her, well aware that Harry was listening intently to the answer.

Nagini hissed her displeasure. She enjoyed travelling and seeing the creatures of other nations, especially places of warmer climates.

_“Do you travel often?”_ Harry asked. He had grown used to Parseltongue—it now came as easily to him as English did—and switching from one language to another was now seamless.

“When work permits,” Voldemort answered in English. “I have had less time to travel for pleasure over the years, though there may be time yet for a brief holiday this summer, given the correct alignment of other events.”

Now that Dumbledore was no longer a nuisance, Voldemort could conduct some personal research abroad that he had shelved in favour of managing his nation. Specifically, he hoped to continue his research on living Horcruxes. Perhaps there was no information to be found here in Europe, but there were plenty of unexplored myths and legends on other continents.

“You would accompany me,” Voldemort added, “as I would be engaging in foreign relations as well.”

“I’d like that,” Harry said. “Are you… are we looking to expand?”

The question was innocuous, but Voldemort recognized the intention behind it. “As of now, we are not looking to expand our borders,” Voldemort told him.

Harry nodded and resumed facing forward. Voldemort could almost hear Harry’s thoughts ricocheting around, brushing up against that ever-present mental link that they shared.

“If you are worried for your friends—”

“I know,” Harry said. “I know you promised they would be safe.”

Voldemort regarded Harry for some time as they continued to walk. Neither of them spoke; Voldemort was not offended enough by Harry’s outburst to admonish him.

They made their rounds until the manor was in sight, and that was when Harry spoke again.

“The photographs of them were nice,” Harry said quietly. “Sometimes—sometimes I worry I might forget about them. But I can look at the pictures you gave me, and I can remember what they look like. Sort of. What Hermione’s smile looks like, with the little gap. How Ron’s eyes crinkle when he laughs too loudly.”

“You miss them.” A factual statement; not one that Voldemort understood from experience, as he had never missed anyone before, but it was a concept he could apply to the situation at hand.

“I—yes. I miss them.” Harry’s face crumpled into a resigned misery. He set Nagini gently upon the floor, then raised a hand to rub at his eyes and cheeks, stubbornly trying to push tears back into his head. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore, okay?”

Voldemort did not answer. He had no strong desire to discuss this to begin with, let alone to push for more of it. “As you wish.”

Harry wiped with his robe sleeve, face flushed. He seemed to be angry now—his brow furrowed, his jaw stiff. “I’d like to go to my room, sir.”

“Dismissed.”

Voldemort stood in the entrance hall as Harry trudged up the stairs in the direction of his room, sniffling all the while. And even after Harry was gone, Voldemort remained in place, thinking on what to do.

_“Brooding,”_ Nagini said, giving off the impression that she was judging him.

Voldemort glared at her, then stalked off to his office. There was still work to be done today, and he would busy himself with that instead of these inconsequential emotional problems.

* * *

Spring began to fade, the bright colours bronzing over to the golden hues of summer. Voldemort had settled his plans for the season. He had made the arrangements and given his lieutenants orders to follow in his absence. Harry had been tasked with managing their travel itinerary. As such, Harry had been occupied with sending owls and making Floo-calls to organize their travel papers and various lodgings.

The summer journey, Voldemort hoped, would give the young man further distraction from his occasional bouts of moodiness. Harry would forget the misery of missing his friends, would see the world in its splendour, all that it offered them, the vast expanse of it that they would have all of eternity to partake and explore.

“You requested me, my Lord?”

Voldemort was in his office at the Ministry, looking over his plans for the month of June. He and Harry were due to leave for Egypt in a week’s time. His young assistant had never left the country before, let alone the continent, and so Voldemort was sure that Harry would be both enthralled and impressed by the end of their trip abroad.

“Yes, Theodore. Do have a seat.” Voldemort gestured downwards in invitation.

Theodore maintained a skillful level of repose as Voldemort scrutinized him. “How may I be of service?” Theodore asked, respectful and idle all at once.

It was clear why Harry had grown fond of this man. Such charm, such composure. “You have been Barty’s assistant for ten years now, is that so?”

“I was hired straight from Hogwarts, my Lord.” Theodore paused, then continued, “Mr. Crouch is an excellent supervisor, and I could not speak more highly of him. I am very grateful for my position, and the opportunities it has afforded me—”

“Opportunities, indeed.” Voldemort retrieved a folder from his desk and tossed it across.

Theodore picked it up, flipped through the contents. “The Department of Magical Transportation?” he asked.

“Radford will be retiring at the end of this month. I would like you to replace him.”

“I—” Composure fully frazzled, Theodore set the folder back down upon the table. It took a few seconds before he looked back up. “I am honoured that you would consider me for such a position.”

“The period for consideration is complete. Consider the job yours.” Voldemort waved an airy hand. “Barty will help you acclimate, and we will begin the transition immediately. By the time I return, I expect things to be running as smoothly as they had been, if not better.”

“Yes, my Lord. I will do my utmost to meet your expectations.”

Voldemort smiled. “See to it that you do so, and you will hear no complaint from me.”

* * *

The list of places Voldemort and Harry visited over the summer was lengthy: Egypt, Rome, Dubai, Crete. A few days here and there, up to a week in some; the time passed with meetings full of handshakes and mealtimes full of new foods to try. Though Voldemort himself maintained the fair complexion that the English were known for, Harry’s darker skin warmed further over, adopting a healthy tan interspersed with faint freckles.

In the spare time they had, Voldemort led them to magical landmarks, to libraries and old temples, up mountains and along cliff sides. Harry was a quick study—he spoke intelligently on subject matters he was educated on and asked the right questions on the subjects he was not.

Nagini was certainly enjoying herself as well. She was sunning on the open verandas and soaking up the hot, humid weather, demanding treats wherever they went. Harry continued to indulge her, carrying her around and feeding her pieces of meat when she pestered him.

“You’re well on your way to becoming her favourite,” Voldemort said one day, while they were reading through trade contracts in the guest room they’d been given in Dubai.

“Am I?” Harry glanced out towards the balcony, which was where they had spotted her last.

“She’s very particular.” Voldemort slid the contracts away, massaging his temples. “A majority of my followers irritate her. But you seem to awaken her mothering instincts, which is why she insists upon spending time with you.”

“I like her,” Harry said, hesitant. “She’s less, um, scary? Now that I can talk to her.”

“I wouldn’t say such things around her, lest she truly believe you no longer quake in terror when she draws near,” Voldemort drawled. “She takes her reputation rather seriously.”

Harry cracked a small smile at that. “Yeah, sure.”

Voldemort waited to see if the conversation would continue, only Harry resumed staring toward the balcony, his eyes distant.

“I’m going for some air,” Harry said. He straightened his clothing—plain t-shirt and cargo shorts, a stark contrast to Voldemort’s own crisp white shirt and charcoal trousers—and made for the veranda.

The moods of melancholy happened less now that they were abroad, but they still happened with some regularity. The wrong word or subject could trigger it. Voldemort had not pressed for Harry’s thoughts on these matters, but he was curious as to what inner turmoil remained. More grief for his friends? It was hard to tell, and Legilimency was no longer appealing as it had once been. Even if Voldemort was to uncover the thoughts that rested behind the sorrow, he doubted he would be able to comprehend them.

Harry’s mind was an oddity, a strange place full of passionate ideals and firm beliefs. This mental strength had been worked into Occlumency shields, powerful ones that Voldemort knew only he would be able to shatter. Even Severus, who was long practiced in the skill, would be impressed by how far Harry had come.

* * *

Their return to Britain was heralded by the staff and the public alike. Good news had returned with them: secure contracts with other nations for new, unique ingredient sourcing and profitable business expansions. Distance made the heart grow fonder, and the people were glad to see the return of their Minister and Lord. 

The panic of the dragon pox outbreak was over, and people were eager for peace and prosperity in all its forms. Voldemort had planned for new legislation to pass upon his arrival—changes to the current system that would both improve the economy and reassure the citizens.

And so the month following was filled with Wizengamot sessions and private galas to build support. Voldemort attended events with Harry by his side, and his young assistant proved adept at navigating the high-class waters of the Pureblood society, often attaching himself to Narcissa’s social circles as he won favour with his perceived guilelessness and honest charm.

Additionally, Harry had taken the news of Theodore’s promotion shockingly well even though it meant the two of them saw less of each other. Voldemort watched the interactions from afar, admittedly intent on the changes the new distance would bring, but they maintained a respectable distance.

Perhaps Theodore had anticipated the separation, had utilized Harry’s fondness to secure a higher position for himself.

The true answer was a mere interrogation away, only Voldemort also knew that a negative cast over one of Harry’s few genuine relationships would snap the fragile contentment that had been hardwon over the summer. Still, it was safer to know. Other plans could be made in the case of Theodore’s disloyalty.

So Voldemort called Theodore Nott to his office for the second time, requested his shields be dropped, and was permitted access into his mind.

Theodore was an organized man. His mind was compartmentalized, sorted with an efficient system that even Voldemort found agreeable. Therefore it was easy for Voldemort to find the information he desired, well-laid out as it was. Voldemort maneuvered through the mental space Theodore had allotted for Harry, picking through the memories here and there, searching for what was most hidden.

Inside of a locked room, at the bottom of a chest in a closed box, there was a pair of glasses.

Round frames, shiny lenses—there was little guess as to whose they were.

Voldemort retrieved them, lifted them up to the eye level of his projected self, and was swarmed with an overwhelming amount of _everything._ Emotion shoved its way to the forefront, a tide of mixed feelings that swelled up and over, threatening to break Voldemort’s concentration.

Theodore was more than _fond._ There was sadness there as well; a resigned acceptance to fate. Beyond the circumstances of their respective positions, there was fate that Voldemort had imposed, fate that would see Harry’s life extending well beyond what Theodore would ever know or comprehend.

And then there was the intrigue that Voldemort had once named, the interest in Harry Potter that had led them to this situation—

A schoolboy crush, of all things.

Captivity had deposited Harry right within Theodore’s reach, and Theodore had seized the opportunity as any decent Slytherin would have, seeking to win over what he had once wanted for his own. Underneath that stoic exterior, the boldness and bravado, was inadequacy, fear of rejection; a worry that he would lose whatever connection he had with Harry to the Dark Lord.

Theodore would have been content with friendship, with his coy flirtations and their daily lunches together, only the wedge was now driven in. The various extenuating circumstances—Harry’s reluctance to engage, and Voldemort’s own meddling in their affairs. Distance would kill whatever remained between them.

_“We’re just friends.”_

_“We are. But that doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy ourselves.”_

The resignation clouding the memory was clear. Theodore was aware a relationship would never come to pass, would never hold, but he had given his best effort at making the most of the time he’d had; an effort worthy of acknowledgement.

Voldemort withdrew. 

Theodore’s face was pale, ghost-like, streaked with silent tears, but his back was straight and his chin held up, proud to the last. “M-my Lord,” Theodore croaked. “Is that all?”

He wished to flee, and Voldemort could not fault him for that. His heart had been laid bare, his weakness made visible, his shame now prominent.

Harry would have hated to see this. To see pain wrought upon a person he cared for.

“One final thing,” Voldemort said, “if you will remain but a moment longer.”

Theodore shifted, clearly uncomfortable. “Yes?”

“If you wish, I could utilize a combination of Legilimency and Obliviation to _remove_ a portion of your memories. To relieve the burden, so to speak. A majority would remain intact, but the nuance, the context, those can all be erased.”

“I…” Theodore glanced back at the desk, frowning. “A portion, my Lord?”

“The affection,” Voldemort said softly. “The degree of care. A mercy I grant to you, as you have served well and earned my respect.”

Voldemort allowed Theodore time to think, let the minutes slide on as Theodore sat in silence, blank eyes still fixed upon the wood grain of the table top.

“Thank you,” Theodore said eventually, voice firm. “But I would like to keep my memories, if that is permissible.”

“It is.” Voldemort kept the surprise from his tone. “May I ask why?”

“Better to have loved and lost,” Theodore said, quiet, wistful. Then he added, at regular volume, “I thank you for your kindness, my Lord. I understand your wishes, and I will keep my distance. If you must, make my excuses to Harry, but please—if I could make a request, in lieu of the favour you offered me—be kind to him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i feel really really bad for theodore :< i'll make it up to him in another story maybe...
> 
> idk, maybe he'll come up again in this one? but really i should be putting him out of his misery lol
> 
> anywayssssss, hope this chapter was fun and sexy otherwise? hoping everyone stays safe in these hard times.


	21. Resolution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Voldemort felt the fury build in him again, that virulent monstrousness inside of him. The burning outrage, the dark oblivion that would open up to unleash the unspeakable upon those who sought to destroy him. How dare they do this—how _dare_ they—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello, this is just a friendly author's note to welcome you to the chapter before you get yeeted into all the tension :)

Though his main purpose abroad had been to gather research on Horcruxes, Voldemort had uncovered very little over the summer. Many powerful magic users in the past had created Horcruxes, but he, Lord Voldemort, was the only being that had become powerful enough to create seven. And tales of living Horcruxes were vague and exaggerated, offering no substantial basis for him to build any theories. 

Thus forced into original research, Voldemort extracted one of his earliest Horcruxes, his boyhood diary, from its hiding place in the hopes that some testing would reveal some new information. He would compare results from the diary to Nagini and uncover the differences between them.

Nagini found the trials amusing—she claimed many of the spells Voldemort tried on her tickled. She found the sensation enjoyable. Even so, she tended to nap as he ran tests, which was odd given the lingering summer heat, but Voldemort attributed it to the coziness of the room and the familiar presence of her master by her side.

When Nagini was near, there was a feeling of harmony between them, a resonance borne of the soul piece inside of her—a feeling similar only to the resonance Voldemort shared with Harry.

But Voldemort did not want Harry around while he conducted these experiments. There was too much unknown, too many variables. It was safer to test first, and to test with caution, than to alert Harry to the idea of something being wrong. So time to research was limited, but as there was no rush, Voldemort felt he was making some progress at the least.

As promised, Theodore Nott was keeping his distance, claiming his new position kept him busy at every opportunity. And though Voldemort worried about this response provoking resentment—Harry did know that the promotion had been delivered by Voldemort’s hand—nothing came of it. Harry carried himself the same as ever, and eventually the two drifted to become colleagues.

Satisfied that the possibility of future attachment was eliminated, Voldemort turned his attention to resolving the original problem—Harry’s grief over losing his friends. Though it had not truly happened yet as they still lived on, albeit out of reach, it would happen someday nonetheless, and so Harry needed to find closure now, while they were alive, to avoid becoming more upset later on, when they were dead.

The sooner such weaknesses were worked through and disposed of, the better.

In the meanwhile, Voldemort enjoyed the relative peace of ruling his nation. The Order of the Phoenix had gone quiet, perhaps at last realizing they could not win against Voldemort’s secure leadership. Or perhaps they knew should their remaining captains be captured, the drawn-out war would be finally forced to an end.

Taking advantage of the radio silence, Voldemort put in an order to increase funding to the DMLE, determined to squash the threat once and for all.

* * *

“What happened?”

Voldemort ignored Harry’s question, pushing forward into the office and setting the clear, magical sphere that contained Nagini down upon the desk.

It was then that Harry took in the state of them both—bloody, dishevelled—and his eyes flew wide. “Where have you been?” Harry demanded, voice shaking.

“Silence, Potter,” Voldemort snapped. He dispelled the stasis and recast, then turned his attention to his bookshelf, mentally sifting through the titles and the contents. Nothing here was what he needed.

Harry looked about to protest again, only as he approached the desk, he jerked back in shock from where Nagini was hovering inside of the sphere.

“Is she hurt?” Harry asked.

“Yes,” Voldemort answered. He was tense, temper already frayed beyond belief, but hearing the genuine concern in Harry’s question soothed him somewhat. “I require some books from the study.”

Harry straightened. “Which ones?”

Voldemort rattled off the titles, and Harry bolted for the door without the need for a dismissal.

Within the sphere, Nagini rotated. She was frozen, held in space and time, her injuries paused only by the power of her master’s magic. Voldemort could feel the drain, the pull of his already dwindling reserves, as he fed energy into maintaining the stasis.

If this did not work, her eye would be permanently damaged in the way that only dark magic could accomplish.

Voldemort felt the fury build in him again, that virulent monstrousness inside of him. The burning outrage, the dark oblivion that would open up to unleash the unspeakable upon those who sought to destroy him. How dare they do this—how _dare_ they—

There was a loud, ear-splitting _crack._ The bookshelf he had glanced at only a minute ago had splintered due to the overflow of his magic, the raving pulse of his temper.

Harry stumbled back through the door, face red with exertion. Voldemort should have given him a wand, the better to summon the books once he had gotten close enough, but it was too late for such a thought now.

“ _The Depths and Glory,_ ” Voldemort said, snapping the fingers of his free hand.

The book met his palm, and Voldemort set it down upon the desk, flipping the pages, eyes scanning. Normally, he would have levitated the book and gone through it wandlessly, but he was loath to waste even a drop of magic now.

Harry maneuvered closer, setting the rest of the books upon the opposite side of the desk, giving Voldemort a wide berth in which to work. He remained silent for a minute, watching as Voldemort continued to seek answers.

“Osbert’s book,” Voldemort bit out, tossing the _‘The Depths and Glory of the Darkest Arts’_ aside with a thump.

A new book slid across the desk to him, already open to the table of contents. Voldemort scowled and tore past it. These were his books, he knew what lay within the pages, only he had to be missing _something_ still—

“Um,” said Harry. “Can I help?”

“No,” Voldemort told him. As well-meant as the offer was, Harry would know nothing of how to reverse such a spell, how to counteract such a dark curse.

“ _Yes,_ ” Harry said, intent.

Voldemort drew back, sucking in a breath. “You try my patience. Now is not the time for your stubborn arguments—”

“I know that.” Harry’s voice, even and controlled, struck a sudden chord, and Voldemort was reminded that Harry had once led soldiers, had once trained others to fight, had spent a lifetime learning the very tactics that would allow him to injure Voldemort and his followers.

“Speak,” Voldemort commanded, “and make it quick.”

“I recognize the spell,” Harry said in a rush, rounding the corner and approaching the sphere. “It was—um. I know who must have cast it, but I think I could—I can—reverse it. Or slow it. The spell they used won’t kill her, but it could cause permanent damage—”

“You know how to reverse it?” Voldemort cut across Harry’s verbal exposition; he already knew the rest of the information.

“I think I can,” Harry repeated.

Nagini’s body made another full rotation while Voldemort scrutinized the young wizard before him, searching for malicious intent. Because while Nagini would not die, she could be permanently scarred or disabled, and Voldemort was not naive enough to believe Harry’s loyalties lay completely with him.

Harry must have followed the direction of his thoughts, however, because he said, “I won’t hurt her.”

Another second passed, stretching out into eons, and then Voldemort stalked around the desk, undid the wards on the drawer, and withdrew the stick of holly. The wand vibrated, gentle and aware in Voldemort’s hand. Again, there was that familiar harmony.

The stick reversed, the handle swinging out in Harry’s direction.

_Trust._

Holly touched Harry’s hand, sparking at the wand tip—a brief golden glow at its reunion with its owner—and then Harry swivelled to look at Nagini once more.

“I will drop the stasis,” Voldemort said calmly. “And you will have less than a minute with which to work before the spell consumes her vision entirely.”

“I can do it,” Harry said, confidence straining, his voice rising an octave.

“On my count.” Voldemort pressed his yew wand to the clear globe encircling Nagini. “Cast on three. One, two, _three_ — _”_

The sphere melted into the air, dissipating, and Harry’s holly wand lit up with a bold cobalt colour, flashing vibrantly and coating the walls with its radiance.

The blood began to fade, vanishing from Nagini’s scales, the wound of her eye knitting itself shut, sealing over, the whole of her pupil returning to normal. Harry’s wand remained level, the power pouring forth, all of it directed purely at healing, at saving.

It should not have come as a surprise that Harry was well educated in reversing the effects of dark magic.

When the light faded, Harry was breathing hard, a sheen of sweat glossing his forehead. “She needs sleep now,” Harry said, panting quietly between the words. “Two or three days of bed rest, potions for increasing hydration retention, and regular intakes of water.”

When Voldemort did not speak, Harry added, “Um. I mean. It might be different for a snake, I don’t know. But her eye should be okay now? Which is what you wanted, right?”

“Yes.” Voldemort cast a silent spell to send Nagini to sleep, then gathered her into his arms.

“It’s a really obscure spell,” Harry continued to babble, “so you maybe only heard of it in passing. But the reversal is simple, only it requires a lot of, um, power, and concentration—”

“Quiet.”

Harry fell silent, his eyes fixed on Nagini’s snoozing form in the Dark Lord’s embrace.

“I will care for her,” Voldemort said, once he was sure his voice would betray none of what he felt. “You may return to your room, and I will request your presence if it is required.”

“I—okay. I hope she’s okay.” Harry blinked, then glanced down at his wand, which was still clasped in his hand. “Should I—?”

“Keep it.” Voldemort turned away. Then he conjured a soft, round cushion of bedding to place Nagini’s sleeping form down upon.

“Okay. I’ll… I’ll go, then.”

Voldemort settled his familiar into the blankets, cast a Warming Charm to keep her comfortable, then returned to face Harry, allowing some of his exhaustion to slip into his posture, his gaze.

“Thank you,” he said simply.

A tired smile split across Harry’s face, transforming weariness to acceptance. “You’re welcome.”

* * *

“There are prisoners.”

Harry startled as Voldemort approached his desk, nearly upsetting his inkwell. “Prisoners?” asked Harry.

“Yes.” Voldemort stepped closer, looming over the desk, peering down at his assistant. “Not the one who injured Nagini, I am told, but prisoners nonetheless.”

Harry stiffened, then relaxed. He blinked, licking his lips. “And?”

It had been a week since Harry had healed Nagini. Voldemort had not seen Harry much since then, busy as he had been with managing the fallout from the attack. The attack that he had led on the Order, expecting little resistance. But time had made them desperate, and desperation had led to _viciousness—_

In Dumbledore’s absence, they had resorted to darker measures.

Voldemort would have applauded them for their tenacity if they had not been fighting against him.

“I am offering you… an alternative.”

Harry set his quill down and, with great care, tidied his workspace, filing away the parchment he’d been working on. Then, once the desk was clear, he looked up. “Okay. What are the terms?”

Voldemort smiled. This was the dance they both knew very well, the quid pro quo that had brought them to this point.

“The opportunity to spare them all.”

Harry twitched, his actions exposing his underlying nerves. “All of the prisoners?” he asked, as though to confirm this to himself.

“All of the ones I have, and any future prisoners that fall prey to my Ministry.”

Harry’s mouth fell flat. “That sounds too good to be true, you know.”

“Ah, it does, doesn’t it?” Voldemort paced away, moving over to his desk, settling into his chair. His robes flared, sweeping around his ankles with the sudden motion. “What do you suppose I will be asking for in return?”

Harry blanched, pushing back from his desk. He stood up, unsteady, and stepped towards the chair opposite Voldemort’s. Voldemort waited, patient, as Harry fell into the chair. Harry’s green eyes were wide and wild, a hint of fear creeping into the corners.

“I don’t know,” Harry said quickly. “What do you want?”

“The Order will not last. Not without Dumbledore, and certainly not without you.” Voldemort braced his forearms on the desk, steepling his hands. “You must agree; their greatest fighters have fallen, or will fall, and the number of Muggleborns that remain in the country are few and far between. Any new births will be documented by my Ministry, and the Order will be unable to reach them before my people do.”

Harry said nothing. He had the look of a man sentenced to the gallows.

“But all is not lost. You may save the lives that remain.”

“Just—” Harry grit his teeth. “Tell me what it is.”

“I am willing to engage in talks with the few leaders of the Order that remain. Conditional upon the fact that you will lead the negotiation for my Ministry, and that the only acceptable resolution will be their complete and total surrender.”

* * *

Harry accepted the task, as Voldemort knew he would. The cost of denying it was too high, and the reward for succeeding was well worth the effort.

It followed, then, that Harry proceeded to apply himself to the job with such vigour that talk at the Ministry reached new levels of gossip. They called him a traitor, which was accurate enough, only they said it with smugness, with superiority. Which was a mistake, especially for those who did so before their Lord.

The additional return of Harry’s wand had also drawn the curious gazes of those who knew how Harry Potter had once been one of the Order’s highest ranking members.

But Voldemort paid no heed to the masses, trusting that his subordinates would correct their behaviours as necessary, and the whispers died nearly as soon as they had begun.

If Harry had heard any of the labels they tossed at him, he was doing a wonderful job of ignoring them. He had higher priorities to focus on, anyhow. This was the final mercy Voldemort would grant to members of the Order, and it was a gift to Harry, who had helped Nagini recover.

Harry had outlined the terms of surrender for the Order very succinctly. This was their only opportunity to live, and they would be foolish to die for their ideals.

Talks went on for hours at a time. Harry was escorted everywhere he went by Death Eaters, and he was never left alone in a room with any Order members. Voldemort knew that they were attempting to convince Harry away from his position, but Voldemort had laid his terms down very clearly. There was to be no dissent amongst his ranks, and there was to be no flexibility in his decision.

So, as the negotiations wore on, Voldemort made note of the toll they took. Not only physical, but emotional as well, for Harry was struggling to reconcile his new directives with the spirited ideals of his past. Harry grew tired, his responses less than enthusiastic, and Voldemort pressed for when these talks would cease, if only because it was obvious that Harry was suffering due to them, and he got the same response every time—

“I’m working on it.”

Dark circles, dull eyes, waxy skin, and shadows around the jaw all marked the look of a man who had little time for his appearance. Voldemort was displeased with this, only this was the task _he_ had set, and so it was impossible to retract it at this point. Harry would insist on seeing it through, and to withdraw him from the negotiations now would set them back weeks, if not months.

They drew closer to October—the month Harry had been captured in last year. The weather was colder, the lesser used rooms of the manor more chilly. Voldemort continued his research on Horcruxes, and it was during one such experiment that he was interrupted by a knock at the door; he recognized the sound of it.

“Come in, Harry.”

Harry stepped into the room, and Nagini practically leapt off of the desk and slid towards him. Harry made no move to pick her up, merely allowed her to wind her way up his leg and around his torso, burying herself in the folds of his robes and draping her head over his shoulder.

“It’s done,” Harry said. “There’s a mess of concessions to be made, but Barty’s approved them all—”

“I am sure everything is in order.” Voldemort held out a hand, and Harry passed a stack of parchments over. Magically binding contracts that would seal peace for their nation.

Harry stepped over to a chair and collapsed into it. Nagini made a noise at the sudden motion, nudging Harry’s jaw with her head.

_“He needss resst,”_ she said to Voldemort.

Harry’s mouth quirked at this, at being talked about as though he was a small child that didn’t comprehend the meaning of sleep. Though, given the present look of him, it certainly seemed to be the case.

“I’m fine,” Harry said. “It’s just… been a long day.”

Voldemort finished looking over the documents and set them aside. “I will tell Barty to give you the week off.”

“What? No, I’m _fine—”_

“And you will assist me here, with my personal research. The Ministry will do without for five days, Harry.”

Harry unclenched his hands from where they had sat on the armrests of his chair, his brows pulling together. “What are you doing here? Are you still looking into… into Horcruxes?

“Yes. Specifically, the connection between them, and how the connection affects their ties to the world of the living.”

“Oh,” said Harry.

Voldemort could tell that Harry was thinking about the mental link between them, only he was too uncomfortable to address it directly. “I have been measuring the strength of my bond with Nagini,” he continued. “The pull of our entwined magic, and our ability to communicate through Parseltongue.”

At the mention of her name, Nagini perked up, sliding over Harry’s shoulder and down his chest, curling up on his lap. _“And next will be the connection with the boy, yess? Masster?”_

Harry reached out to stroke her scales. “Am I next?” he asked. It was a further sign of his exhaustion that his curiosity was dull, muted.

“I have not decided such a thing,” Voldemort said, his eyes narrowing. “The hour is late. Return to your room, sleep, and we shall reconvene in the morning. I will explain further at that point.”

_“I’ll go with him,”_ Nagini said immediately, dropping down onto the floor.

This was amusing because Voldemort had been about to signal for her to do so anyways. Only now she was acting of her own volition, which meant that Voldemort wouldn’t have to promise her any extra vole in exchange for her monitoring.

Harry stood up, suppressing a yawn, and nodded. “Okay. Tomorrow, then.” He left the room, Nagini at his heels.

Voldemort brought the documents Harry had delivered back to eye level. The terms were reasonable, and all members of the Order who had agreed to it would be granted clemency. Muggleborns that lived under their care would be adopted into current magical families and allowed to reside in the country.

This day would be marked in history books. The beginning of a golden age, an age that promised everything he wanted would soon be coming to pass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT UP: consequences of harry running himself ragged over the past few weeks owo
> 
> i think i am on track to finish the story this month, so fingers crossed!


	22. Weakness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry woke to weak sunlight streaming in through the window. As he tried to shift away from it, he was alerted to the fact that he was only in his undershirt and pants, and that his legs were all twisted up in the bedding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> harry needs to take better care of himself 😥😭

Harry barely managed to strip himself of his work clothes before falling onto his bed. He ached from head to toe—even his ears hurt, possibly from the task of holding up his glasses.

Speaking of his glasses…

Harry gazed, forlorn, down at where his wand rested in the pile of his clothes that was now out of reach. His glasses were magically stuck to his face, which meant he would have to remove them wandlessly.

Harry knew how to do minor acts of wandless magic, and therefore he was accustomed to sticking and unsticking his glasses without the use of his wand. Only right now he was _exhausted,_ not to mention out of practice with magic in general, meaning the task of exerting enough magical power to force his glasses off his face didn’t seem worth the effort.

Flopping onto his back, Harry shut his eyes. He could hear Nagini moving around, and he wondered if she would try to curl up on the bed. She liked to linger after he got up in the mornings so she could soak up the body heat left behind in the mattress.

Was there anything else he needed to do before he passed out? Harry forced his eyes open and blinked at the ceiling. He didn’t feel any sense of accomplishment from having completed the negotiations. To sit across the table from people he thought of as friends, or at least as colleagues—it had been difficult, to say the least.

_“When will you wake?”_

Harry startled. He’d already forgotten that Nagini was here. “Um,” he said. _“Can you wake me at… eight?”_ That was a regular time to be up for work, and Voldemort hadn’t told Harry to be awake at any particular time, so he’d just have to assume it was business as usual.

_“Yess,”_ Nagini said. It was odd to hear her voice from far away, like it was disembodied. _“Now ssleep,”_ she added.

_“Okay,”_ Harry said, the word slurring. _“G’night, Nagini.”_

His eyelids closed, bathing his vision in blessed darkness, and Harry let his consciousness tumble away from him.

* * *

Harry woke to weak sunlight streaming in through the window. As he tried to shift away from it, he was alerted to the fact that he was only in his undershirt and pants, and that his legs were all twisted up in the bedding. A noise akin to a weak mumble escaped his lips. His head was throbbing, and the light was not helping.

_“Awake?”_

The sudden question spooked him, only he was too wiped out to even jump away from the sound. His arms and legs were very far away from his brain.

“Mhmhergh,” Harry said. He tried again, this time in Parseltongue, _“Yess.”_

_“Good. I want the warm sspot.”_

Harry angled his head just enough to see Nagini peer up and over the edge of his bed. The sight of her tickled something in the back of his mind, only his headache prevented him from trying to seek out the source of the disturbance.

_“Morning,”_ Harry said to her, then winced at the damage his normal volume of speaking did to his aching brain.

Nagini didn’t respond, though she did set her head down on the bed, moving closer, staring at him.

Harry exhaled slowly, hoping that this would help to ease the pain, and went to sit up. His head spun, but it wasn’t too bad. He’d been through worse before, and he thought that if he could just make it to Voldemort’s study and sit down, then it would be alright.

Gazing about the room, Harry made a mental list of what he’d need to do to make himself presentable. He could brush his teeth, or he could use a spell as a quick fix. Either way he’d have to get dressed, so maybe it would be better to save his energy for that.

Sliding his legs off the bed, Harry stepped over to where his wand rested atop the pile of yesterday’s clothes. His hair felt vaguely sweaty where it was plastered to his neck and forehead. Voldemort wouldn’t like that, because he liked it when Harry was clean and put-together. But they were staying here at the manor today, so Harry could only hope that it wouldn’t matter.

Harry plucked his wand up and cast a Freshening Charm. It worked somewhat, though the sudden rush of using his magic caused a sharp spike of pain to drive through his skull.

This was going to be hard. Harry braced himself and cast the spell to work the bad breath out of his mouth. That one was easier to do, as the mouth was a smaller area, but he still felt the drain as his magic worked itself through his wand.

Harry walked over to his wardrobe, careful to take slow, small steps. He would just throw a set of robes on; it didn’t matter if there was nothing on underneath because they would be staying in. Harry repeated this fact a few times to convince himself of its validity, then reached for the closest article of clothing—a set of navy robes.

Then Harry looked over at his bed, noting that Nagini was gone. The door to his room had also been left open. Had she left? Did she not want to sleep on the bed?

Harry glanced around in confusion at his room, just to make sure she wasn’t hiding somewhere else. He would have stooped to look under his bed, only he didn’t think his headache would be able to handle the motion.

“Nagini?” he asked in a whisper. There was no response.

Swallowing around his dry throat, Harry tugged the robes on over his head, avoiding any sharp, sudden movements. Once done, he caught sight of himself in the mirror nearby. To be honest, he looked awful. Harry raised a hand to his hair, half-heartedly fussing with it.

Whatever. There wasn’t anything he could do to fix how he looked now, and if he kept this up he was going to be late—

Harry’s eyes landed on the clock, and he mentally recoiled in shock. It was half-past eleven.

He was _already_ late. It was as though the floor had dropped out underneath him, like he was once again in that blasted padded room, waiting for the next horror to come—

There was a panicked moment in which Harry tried to find his glasses, only to remember that they were still on his face. Harry shuddered and went to find his shoes, ready to hurry over and make his apologies. Why hadn’t Voldemort come to wake him? He must be mad that Harry had overslept so much… the Voldemort that Harry knew didn’t tolerate tardiness or excuses.

Shoes on, sockless, Harry stumbled for the door. Only that was a mistake because his vision swam, fading in and out of clarity, and Harry thought that he might throw up.

No. He was _fine._

Harry rolled his shoulders, tried to steady his breathing again. His stomach felt funny, only he couldn’t be getting sick, because he _couldn’t_. This was all just really horrible timing. He could push through it.

He made it halfway down the hall, staggering like an Inferi. It was only then that it occurred to him he might not actually make it to the study.

If he didn’t make it to the study, then Voldemort would certainly come looking for him. Voldemort discovering Harry passed out on his lush carpet was probably not the best situation for Harry to put himself in. Maybe he would get points for at least trying to reach the study, even if his efforts had ultimately resulted in failure.

“What do you think you are doing?”

Harry had wrapped an arm around his stomach in a desperate, last-ditch attempt to hold himself together, but the sight of Lord Voldemort standing not five meters away was enough to send another jolt of pure anxiety running through him like a live current.

“Did I not tell you to _rest?”_ asked Voldemort.

“Um,” Harry said. He tried to remember if Voldemort had told him that last night, but everything in his brain was fuzzy. He still felt sort of ill, like his legs were about to fold at any moment, and following their current conversation was already taking up a lot of his limited concentration.

“Ridiculous,” Voldemort muttered, drawing closer.

Harry flinched back, unthinking, and this recoil was what at last destroyed his inner equilibrium. His entire body swayed, leaving him with no choice but to sink to the floor, praying to Merlin that he wasn’t about to throw up all over the Dark Lord’s feet.

Voldemort was speaking again, but the sounds were incomprehensible. Knees on the ground, Harry inhaled in through his nose, a slow expansion of his lungs, trying to still the spasm in his chest, trying to not look weak.

A hand touched his arm, gentle but insistent, and Harry jerked away from it with a wobble, the floor spinning as he did so.

“I’m not fragile, _Tom_ ,” Harry spat, incensed at how winded he sounded. He was _fine_ , he just needed to catch his breath a little.

Then there was a moment in which Harry regretted— _regretted!_ —his sudden outburst, because Voldemort stilled, his hand dropping with a slow, agonizing motion.

“Very well,” said Voldemort, cold and distant, pulling away even further. 

Harry straightened, looking over, and—

The ground fell away, and Harry yelped, undignified, as he was levitated into the air and rotated onto his back.

“You’re insane,” Harry wheezed as Voldemort hovered him along.

“I’m doing this for you,” Voldemort told him.

“Sure you are,” said Harry. “Not because I house a piece of your soul or anything like that, right?”

Harry’s body rocked slightly as they came to a sudden halt in the middle of the hall, and Harry mustered enough energy to glare up at the Dark Lord.

“You underestimate your value to me,” Voldemort said, and the honesty on his face—tucked into the soft lines of his brows and mouth, burning red in the raw intensity of his piercing gaze—was shocking to Harry, whose mouth dropped open despite himself.

Voldemort meant it.

Dazed, Harry did not protest as they continued to his room, where Voldemort deposited him onto the bed. Then Voldemort moved away, and Harry could only lie there, confused and weak, until Voldemort returned with a potion in hand. The cork came off, and that was how Harry found himself being spoon fed like a child while Voldemort glared at him.

Once the potion was gone, a glass of water was next, though thankfully Voldemort conjured a straw for Harry to use. Neither of them spoke, which was also nice. Harry sipped delicately at his water, horrifically embarrassed by the entire scenario but also too drained to really care that much about what was going on.

Voldemort stuck around, and Nagini came by after another minute or so. According to Voldemort, she had a vole in her mouth, and so she remained on the floor and out of Harry’s field of vision while she consumed her snack. She must have gone and told on him while he’d been dressing for the day, and that was why Voldemort had come to find him in the hallway.

It was shortly after having this thought that Harry began to doze. He was going to fall asleep with Voldemort in the room. This unnerved him, not because he now knew that Voldemort would never hurt him, but because he felt that—like with Nagini—Voldemort would not let him die or come to harm, regardless of what Trelawney’s prophecy had said.

* * *

When Harry had woken up, Voldemort had still been in the room, reading a book. He had looked up upon hearing Harry’s sudden coughing, and he had asked if Harry needed food or water, to which Harry had responded in a slow affirmative, voice dry and cracking.

It was strange. All of it was strange. Though Harry had been preoccupied with negotiations recently, it had not escaped his notice that Voldemort was acting unlike his usual self.

There were a number of events that were cause for confusion. Theodore’s sudden promotion, the destruction of Harry’s prison cell, and the clemency that had been granted to all Order members who were willing to surrender. And Theodore had even said that Voldemort was more lenient when it came to his own people now that Harry was around.

Harry had been hoarding the scraps of his plan in the back of his head, only… it seemed like his plan had come together without him needing to do anything at all.

He had wanted Voldemort to be better, to become more _human._ Because those bits of humanity Harry had witnessed when Voldemort doted on Nagini were real. That wasn’t a switch on and off for that kind of thing—either you cared, or you didn’t. And if Voldemort had the capacity to care, that meant Harry stood a chance of convincing him to do the right thing.

So Harry had planned to win the Dark Lord’s trust, to become the perfect aide that Voldemort had desired. To earn respect and be able to provide sound advice—reasonable, _moral_ advice—that Voldemort could be persuaded into following. To turn Voldemort into as good a person as he could manage.

Neville, who was the one that had harmed Nagini, had been offered the same deal for leniency as the rest of the Order members. That was a move that had shocked Harry, who would have guessed that Voldemort’s desire for vengeance would have overpowered all else. Though Harry supposed that if anyone was to break their signed agreement, the consequences would be more dire.

“Harry,” said Voldemort.

Harry looked over. There was a tray of food hovering before him. He must have really zoned out if he had missed an entire meal appearing.

“Thanks,” Harry said.

“Can you eat without assistance?”

Harry quickly grabbed the spoon on the tray and pulled the bowl of tomato soup towards him. “Yes, I can.”

Voldemort’s eyes narrowed, but he did not move from his chair, so Harry felt safe to eat without the possibility of being interrupted and spoon-fed.

“If you were feeling unwell, you should have kept to your room,” Voldemort said.

“Sorry,” Harry said. He hadn’t thought about that. If he was sick, he could pass it onto other people. “I didn’t mean to get you sick or anything.”

The book in Voldemort’s hand snapped shut. “That is not what I meant.”

Harry focused on his soup, hopeful that Voldemort would say what he had done wrong so he wouldn’t have to guess at it. The tomato was nice, Harry decided absently, and it wasn’t too salty.

Voldemort watched him, crimson eyes intent, and Harry tried to ignore the staring because he was beginning to feel like all of his thoughts and feelings were being laid bare.

Soon the soup was gone, and still neither of them had spoken. Harry felt guilty. He wasn’t sure why, because the emotion wasn’t traceable to any logic he could think of; all he knew was that he disliked the fact that he was lying here in bed, ill and useless, while Voldemort regarded him with that odd look of frustrated admonishment.

Was Voldemort going to hang around all day? What about the research they were supposed to be doing? Harry opened his mouth to ask about this, only Voldemort beat him to it, speaking, and so Harry fell silent to avoid interrupting.

“You would work yourself to the bone for those who would abandon you at first opportunity,” Voldemort said slowly, mystification colouring his words. “The care you provide, the allowances you make—all for the sake of another life saved. You volunteer yourself for pain, for suffering beyond the limits of most other wizards. I do not understand it.”

“You don’t have to,” Harry said. “I just know that _all_ lives are worth saving. No matter what.”

Voldemort appeared amused by this. “Even mine?”

“Even… even yours,” Harry said, working to keep his voice firm.

All lives had value, even Voldemort’s, and given everything that had happened, Harry felt as though they stood a good chance of someday reaching that utopia Voldemort had promised.

Maybe Albus was right. Maybe Voldemort could never know love, could not understand it. But if there was one thing in the world that ought to be universal, Harry thought, why wouldn’t it be love? Why the hell not.

Voldemort could care. He could be kind. How many times had Voldemort mocked kindness, mocked the heartfelt feelings that Harry carried with him wherever he went? These were the emotions Voldemort claimed to not understand. The emotions that had prompted Voldemort to take an interest in Harry to begin with.

We all fear what we do not understand, Harry thought. Voldemort was no different.

“You would try to save me?” Voldemort asked. His tone had gone cold—derisive, dismissive.

A tired smile cracked through Harry’s exhaustion, spreading warmth throughout his chest. Maybe Voldemort didn’t think of himself as someone in need of saving, but…

“I _am_ trying,” Harry said. This time, his voice did not waver.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the next chapter is already written and is undergoing editing. i think as i get closer to the end i will try to maintain a buffer chapter, just to make sure everything works out the way it should.
> 
> would love to know what you all think of harry's thought process in this chapter. next chapter, we will continue with the exploration of their current relationship.
> 
> anyways, harry is the best and i love him 😭✌🏼❤️


	23. Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even after Harry was finally deemed well again, Voldemort still kept Harry inside the manor. Voldemort would visit the Ministry during the early hours of the day, and then they would spend time in the study or in the office, where Harry would mostly sit around as Voldemort conducted research, or whatever it was that he was doing.

Voldemort kept Harry confined to his room, claiming a desire to see full recovery before Harry was allowed to so much as look through his window outside. Harry didn’t like this, but he wasn’t in much of a position to argue. So they spent the day together, mostly in silence, and Voldemort read from his books while Harry drifted in and out of sleep.

The next day, a healer was brought in to check Harry over—Ernie Macmillan, another familiar face. Harry had been feeling better, and therefore thought the entire ordeal was a bit unnecessary, but apparently Ernie had shown up at some odd hour in the morning and waited for Harry to wake up, so Harry would have felt terrible in sending him away after all that.

“Well?” Voldemort demanded.

Ernie cleared his throat and rubbed at his chin. “I would say it’s only a regular cold, my Lord. Just that the symptoms are worsened given… a pre-existing state of physical and mental distress. Have you been getting enough sleep, Mr. Potter? Eating regular meals?” Ernie hadn’t said anything about the scar on Harry’s chest, which was good, because Harry no longer knew how to feel about it.

“Um,” said Harry. “Yes? Mostly…”

Neither Ernie nor Voldemort looked like they believed that.

“Anyways,” Ernie said, “I’d say a day more of bedrest, the usual potions for exhaustion and dehydration, and then he ought to be fine for moving about. Take it day by day, but I don’t see any cause for concern.”

“Another day?” Harry protested. “That’s a bit much.”

Voldemort’s face was impassive. “I will take your advice under consideration, Healer Macmillan.”

“Absolutely contact me if there are any changes, or if you have any additional worries,” Ernie said, straightening. Then he hesitated, still hovering by the bed.

“You are dismissed.”

Ernie bowed low and vacated the room at speed.

“Hope you pay him well,” Harry said wryly. “Is he on retainer or something?”

“Or something,” Voldemort said briskly. “Now, shall we have breakfast? Or would you prefer to eat later.”

They had scrambled eggs and orange juice. The situation ought to feel more surreal than it did, only it _didn’t._ Something fundamental must have shifted again, Harry thought. Because Harry hated being fussed over, but having it come from Voldemort felt strangely like a victory.

* * *

Even after Harry was finally deemed well again, Voldemort still kept Harry inside the manor.

Voldemort would visit the Ministry during the early hours of the day, and then they would spend time in the study or in the office, where Harry would mostly sit around as Voldemort conducted research, or whatever it was that he was doing.

Harry had also been given a pile of books to read, books on subjects that Voldemort said he would need to understand before he could be truly useful here.

It would have been boring, only Voldemort liked to chat while he worked, and so Harry got used to taking a break from his readings to hold the occasional conversation.

They spoke on a lot of topics. Voldemort seemed knowledgeable on everything, and so Harry could speak up with nearly any errant thought and be subjected to a full lecture on the subject of his choosing.

Tom Riddle could have been a professor at Hogwarts, and maybe he could have even been a good one, if he could be as patient with his students as he was with Harry. Because Harry did feel he often asked a lot of stupid questions, especially about the readings he was working through, only Voldemort never made him feel stupid for asking.

There was, however, one major issue that Harry wanted to address, only he had no idea how to phrase it.

Voldemort was brewing a potion in a large cauldron on the floor while Nagini and Harry served as his audience. The fumes from the cauldron were consistently swallowed by a spell Voldemort had cast, so that the spirals of yellow wafting from the potion flew up and vanished into nothingness.

Harry had been trying to plow his way through a particularly boring passage on the differences between magical and mundane immune systems—he was sure that Voldemort must have picked this book to prove a point, because Harry had somehow caught a common cold despite having a heightened immune system—but now he watched, interested, as the Dark Lord worked his way through the brewing process.

It was nothing like Slughorn’s classes at Hogwarts. Harry had never seen someone _create_ a potion before, and while such a thing was supposed to be dangerous at best and fatal at worst, Voldemort seemed very confident in what he was doing.

The brewing continued as Voldemort prepared other ingredients to be added to the cauldron. Harry tried to go back to reading, only the text was boring and technical. He must have reached his limit for comprehending jargon today, he decided.

“I’m going to use the bathroom,” Harry said aloud. The last time he had gotten up to leave on his own, Voldemort had levelled him with a stare and asked him where he thought he was going, to which Harry had replied, grumpily so, that he needed to take a piss.

Voldemort hadn’t been happy with the snark, and Harry had already been far enough along in his book on immune systems that he had an idea of why Voldemort was still being so _fussy._ So as a compromise, Harry had decided he would deign to inform Voldemort when and why he needed to leave, and as long as Voldemort didn’t try to follow him around to make sure he didn’t dramatically collapse, it was fine.

Harry stood up, waiting to see if Voldemort was going to say anything. Voldemort _was_ looking at him, eyes narrowed, mouth pressed shut. In reality, it was a mostly-neutral expression for Voldemort, but Harry had learned to read between the lines for what existed underneath.

“Very well,” said Voldemort, after another pause in which Harry had debated just _leaving,_ because the sooner he left, the sooner he would come back and Voldemort would stop being so weirdly overprotective.

“I don’t need _permission_ to use the bathroom,” Harry said. “I’m just letting you know so you don’t interrogate me about where I’m going.”

Voldemort only huffed in response. Harry took that as a noise of agreement and made for the door—

He did not get very far before a slow hissing sound signalled that Nagini was trailing behind him. Harry turned around, glanced down at her. Even though snakes didn’t actually have facial features to show emotions, Harry could still sense the aura of innocence she was attempting to exude.

“Okay,” Harry said. “Okay, I’m done with this.”

Nagini said nothing, only continued to watch him with her glossy eyes.

Harry stomped back into the study. “Hey,” he said, glaring daggers at the Dark Lord. “I would like to interrupt.”

Voldemort paused mid-stir and waved his hand over the cauldron, sealing it in a bubble similar to the one that he had used on Nagini. “Yes?”

“I am _fine,_ ” Harry snapped, his self-control splintering at the sound of the Dark Lord’s casual tone. “I’m not sick anymore, and I’m not a child. I can look after myself, and I don’t need Nagini following me to the bathroom!”

They stared at each other. Harry’s breaths were heaving, his lungs and chest strained, and Harry thought that if his body decided now was a good time to cough, he would have to lock himself in his room until Voldemort got bored of all the Death Eaters and decided that having a semi-cooperative Harry was better than nothing.

“Fair enough,” said Voldemort. “Did you wish to return to work at the Ministry?”

At this, all the fight blew out of Harry, leaving him flabbergasted. “I—what?”

“If you wish to return to work, we shall have to set some boundaries. Set hours, so you do not overwork yourself again. I am not above limiting the number of projects you are assigned if you insist upon running yourself into the ground.”

Then Voldemort stepped towards Harry, imposing, the set of his brow immovable. For once, Harry didn’t feel that instinctual urge to lean away. He was stuck in place; frozen with shock, maybe. Definitely at a loss for words.

“If you are to continue to _save_ people,” Voldemort said, his voice a low rumble, “then someone must first save you from yourself.”

Harry’s head shook in a negative. He had just _said_ he was fine. He didn’t need to be looked after. “And that someone’s going to be you?” Harry asked, incredulity colouring his tone.

Voldemort’s jaw flexed, the muscles tightening, and then he said, “I believe I told you that you belong to _me._ ”

Harry bristled and stepped away, only Voldemort followed a second after, leaving them both closer to the wall next to the door.

“If someone is going to care for you, then it will be me,” Voldemort said harshly, looming.

The meaning of care was two-fold: to care _for_ someone, to care _about_ someone. There were two ways for Harry to interpret that sentence; two different implications that Voldemort could have wanted to impart with his words.

Harry went to shake his head again, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. “I’m your Horcrux,” Harry said, desperate to make sense of this. “Is that it?”

But all he could think of were those words— _you underestimate your value to me_ —and the way Voldemort had looked at him with concern.

“You don’t believe that.”

Harry squirmed under the scrutiny, under the weighty presence of the Dark Lord in such close proximity. What did he believe?

Voldemort had turned objects of importance into his Horcruxes. Voldemort had turned Nagini, his beloved familiar, into a Horcrux. And now Harry was also a Horcrux—made into one out of necessity, but one nonetheless. So in Voldemort’s eyes, he was special.

“I don’t need you to look after me. I’m fine,” Harry said. “It’s not like I can die anyways. You already took care of that.” This seemed like the right answer for him to give. A reassurance that Voldemort would rule Britain forever, and a confirmation that Harry had accepted his place by Voldemort’s side.

“This is going nowhere,” Voldemort said, sounding angry as he turned away. “I cannot convince of what you refuse to believe. Leave. Go to your room, or do what you will. You will report to the Ministry tomorrow morning in my office, and we will resume work as usual.”

* * *

Upon reaching his room, Harry had no further clues as to what had triggered Voldemort’s sudden frustration. Harry had given all the correct responses. Voldemort should have been pleased with what he’d heard, not angry.

Harry shut the door behind him and made his way to the center of his room. The bed he’d left rumpled this morning was already made, smooth and tidy. Harry took a deep breath to clear his head so he could think.

The room had changed since he’d first been shown into it. There were actual things on his desk, parchments and inkwells, and there were plenty of books resting on the shelf next to it. All things that had slowly migrated into Harry’s living space as Voldemort had given him more possessions, more freedoms.

And then there was Harry’s wand, which was a welcome presence in his robe pocket. Voldemort had yet to ask for it back.

Also, Voldemort had given him those photographs. Harry hadn’t put them out anywhere. It wouldn’t feel right to. Not at the moment, anyways. Maybe at some point in the future, when he felt less like a traitor and more like someone who deserved friends like Ron and Hermione.

Harry shook himself of those thoughts and refocused on his current problem.

Voldemort had said he was going to _care—_

What did that mean?

Harry did believe Voldemort was capable of kindness, of caring. The problem was that Harry didn’t know what _Voldemort’s_ definition of the word was. But that did narrow the issue down further.

How to tell what Voldemort’s type of care looked like? Behaviours of Voldemort that indicated care… the only framework for such a thing that Harry had witnessed were Voldemort’s interactions with Nagini.

When Nagini had gotten hurt, Voldemort had gotten mad, and— _oh._ Oh.

When _Harry_ had gotten sick, Voldemort had also gotten mad. And he was mad now because he didn’t think Harry had taken the illness seriously enough. Voldemort cared if Harry got sick, and he wanted to avoid it happening in the future. Hence the house arrest and all the fussing.

But that was all because both Harry and Nagini were Horcruxes. Or at least, it was because Harry was a Horcrux. Voldemort did care about Nagini. He transfigured prey for her to chase, and he acted fond of her sassy commentary. Nagini was a familiar and a pet, and people tended to be fond of their pets. But Harry was a person, so it wasn’t the same comparison.

_You do amuse me, Harry._

Harry was—he was—

He was an assistant, a Horcrux, a companion—

He was—

Voldemort’s voice refused to leave his head, dragging up another memory, another echo of that deep tone that implied fondness.

_I’m a prisoner,_ Harry had said. _I’m a Horcrux._

_You are much more than that,_ Voldemort had replied.

They had been touching, then. Voldemort’s fingertips tracing designs on his forehead. But Voldemort had not touched Harry today, and he had not touched even while Harry had been sick. There had been a few times when Harry thought or expected Voldemort to reach for him, only all the motions had been aborted, or else so subtle that Harry must have imagined them in his exhausted state.

Harry knew what happened to the mental state of Muggleborn prisoners who were deprived of touch. Harry knew from experience, because it had happened to him during those long weeks in confinement with only Narcissa’s company at arm’s length.

Voldemort touched Harry, but he did not touch anyone else—not any people, only Nagini. When they were at the Ministry, he tended to wear gloves.

Harry walked over to his desk chair and sat down hard. There was a possessiveness to Voldemort’s behaviour, sure, but there was also the gaping absence of _everything else_ in Voldemort’s life. No family, no friends, no genuine relationships. No touching.

Voldemort claimed to need no one, to be above the ties of love that bound other people together. He had sought to destroy all that he did not understand.

But that void, that emptiness—all of it combined to create a person who didn’t know how to care properly. Voldemort ruled with fear, with the control gained from being more powerful, more forceful than everyone else.

The way Voldemort treated Nagini was similar to the way he treated Harry. Gifts meant to please. Spending time together. Being upset when one of them came to harm. So however it was that Voldemort defined care, it applied to Harry as much as it applied to Nagini.

Which meant that…

Which meant that Voldemort did see Harry as more than a Horcrux, like he had said. Because all those extra things were not things that Voldemort would do unless he was trying.

And maybe this was all in his head, but Harry thought that this explained a lot of Voldemort’s other actions, too. It explained why Voldemort was more merciful lately—because he knew that was what Harry would want. Why the Order had been allowed to surrender, why Harry had been taken abroad over the summer after expressing an interest.

Guilt gnawed at him. Voldemort was trying to be nice, and Harry had dismissed his aid as unneeded and unwanted. If their… relationship, for the lack of a better word, was going to work, then Harry needed to acknowledge the effort.

* * *

When Harry returned to the study, Voldemort was still there. The fire under the cauldron had gone out, the potion inside a disgusting murky brown. 

Voldemort was seated in his armchair, eyes closed, feet propped up on the footstool, though this changed as Harry passed through the doorway and into the room.

“Harry?” Confusion rang clear in Voldemort’s voice as he sat up, his hand smoothing over his chest, pushing away the wrinkles in the fabric there.

Harry rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry. I know you kicked me out.”

Voldemort only continued to stare like Harry was a strange vision that had wandered into the room. “Did you forget something?”

“I came back to say that I understand,” Harry said. “What you meant earlier.”

“You... understand,” Voldemort repeated. 

Harry bobbed his head. He wasn’t good at talking about these things; he never had been. But he thought he knew how to get the spirit across without needing to say anything. He understood the balance between them better now; he knew both the things that Voldemort could give and the things that Voldemort expected in return.

As Harry approached Voldemort, he kept his motions slow, deliberate—paced to not spook or upset. Nearer, nearer, intent upon that imminent sensation of closeness.

Voldemort did not move. His eyes, sanguine as ever, were fixed upon Harry’s face.

So Harry extended his arm and placed his hand down on Voldemort’s shoulder. The robes covering it were soft, but the body underneath felt colder than expected. The result of too many dark spells? Or maybe Voldemort just tended to run colder than everyone else.

Voldemort’s head had tipped back, the curl of his bangs tumbling away, exposing the pale forehead. He was frowning up at Harry, now perplexed.

“We’re okay now, right?” Harry asked quietly.

“We are,” Voldemort said, hesitant. Then, when Harry continued to stay silent, he went to remove Harry’s hand from his shoulder.

Harry let it happen. The sudden touch of skin on skin was jarring, and he was already disoriented from their current proximity. He’d never gotten this close willingly before. The hand that grasped his own was cooler, the skin soft and maybe a little dry. Harry tried, vainly, to recall the last time he’d held hands with anyone.

Maybe a second had passed since Harry had first made contact, but it felt it had been like much longer.

Then Voldemort released his hand, and Harry allowed his arm to fall to his side. The space between them returned to normal as Harry shifted, straightening.

“So,” Harry said. “Back to work tomorrow?”

“I suppose so,” Voldemort said. He maybe even sounded happy about it; as happy as Voldemort ever sounded. “We will reserve research for the weekends.”

“Okay. And I’ll keep up with my readings when I have the time,” Harry continued, “and I won’t overwork myself.”

Voldemort stood, and Harry forced his eyes up even though he was nervous. He hadn’t moved far enough away that Voldemort’s sudden movement failed to startle him.

But the silence that resulted was natural, normal, and Harry wasn’t pressured to fill it with words. He had gotten his point across, somehow, and things were okay—Voldemort had agreed.

The Order was gone; the last piece of Harry’s past was now resolved. He and Voldemort had come to tentative terms and were now working together. Harry had hope that, with time, Voldemort could become a better man.

So, yes. Things were finally _okay,_ and Harry had the feeling they would continue to be okay for a good long while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you were wondering what voldemort's thought process during this chapter was like, you are in luck. i typed all this up when i was going over the chapter with my beta (you are sort of my beta) hannah / waitingondaisies, and i think it's funny enough to include as an A/N here.
> 
> so the following disjointed notes are how voldemort perceived their argument lol.
> 
> **voldemort:** okay fine, i will let you go to work, but you have to TAKE CARE of yourself, we will have ORDER in this household.
> 
>  **harry:** i am fine. i don’t need help, and i certainly don’t need YOUR HELP.
> 
>  **harry:** you only like me because i’m a horcrux. that’s the only thing you care about, because you’re selfish.
> 
>  **voldemort:** no, that’s not true, you don’t really think that (think of all the other things i’ve done for you recently)
> 
>  **harry:** none of that matters, what does it matter, i can’t die anyways; you already took care of that, took care of me in that way
> 
> at this point voldemort’s just. mad. and confused. because what he’s tried to do isn’t enough and giving harry what he wants (going back to work) isn’t enough, and harry STILL thinks he’s being selfish?
> 
> so he tells harry to get out. harry leaves. 
> 
> and then he’s like ok... harry’s mad at me now. time to Brood.
> 
> then harry comes back! and harry’s looking all apologetic! so voldemort is thinking to himself: ‘i must be hallucinating’. cause he’s still not sure why he’s mad and upset to begin with, but really he's upset bc of the perceived rejection from harry...
> 
> but then harry is NICE? harry touches him on the shoulder, and voldemort feels better! but he's still confused so he doesn't really say anything lmfao. anyways. being a repressed bastard is hard work, whew!


	24. Immunity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Voldemort continued to perform various tests on his connection with Nagini, only it was near impossible to determine a numerical measure given the volatility and unpredictability of soul magic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the beginning of the end. bunker down in a nice safe place to read this one.
> 
> if you haven't looked at it lately, i would suggest you remind yourself of the prophecy at the start of the story.

True to his word, Harry kept to regular working hours. They took their meals together, and spent their nights in the study or outside in the woods.

Voldemort felt more content than he had in years. His domain was at peace, his reign eternally secured, his closest aide loyal and devoted. The mystery of his Horcruxes was all that was left to uncover.

And there was no more talk of _saving_ or _understanding._ Voldemort itched to use Legilimency again, to search Harry’s mind for the meaning behind those words. But to tread over the line he had left untouched for many months now would not be well-received, he was sure. And so Harry’s behaviour persisted with its bemusement.

Still, Harry’s company was pleasant and appropriate, and so Voldemort sought ways to encourage a continuation of the positive behaviours. Harry was rapidly approaching the label of ‘protege’ rather than that of mere ‘assistant’, and would soon prove himself useful in regards to Voldemort’s personal research.

Though unversed in the dark arts, Harry was intelligent and quick-witted, possessed of common sense and strong reasoning, and therefore the perfect model for Voldemort to impart his own wisdom and discoveries onto. It bode well for a prosperous future.

* * *

After a month, they moved from the study to a different room dedicated for larger research projects. Harry had not questioned the change in venue, but he had admired the high, curved ceiling and the spread of organized instruments and bookshelves.

Voldemort continued to perform various tests on his connection with Nagini, only it was near impossible to determine a numerical measure given the volatility and unpredictability of soul magic. He had also explained this dilemma to Harry, but neither of them had any idea of how to measure the strength of the connection through magical means.

“How old is she?” Harry asked one day.

Nagini was curled in Harry’s lap, a blanket draped over her, rays of sunlight seeping warmth into the covering. They were well into spring now, and so Voldemort had opened a window high up in the wall to allow for sunlight to filter through.

Harry doted on Nagini. From what Voldemort could tell, the two were now close friends, and Voldemort’s followers were suitably cowed by the sight of her draped around Harry’s shoulders, snoozing.

“Some years older than I am,” Voldemort responded.

Sensing she was being spoken about, Nagini stirred, her head lifting. Harry placed a hand on the side of her neck. _“Are you sstill tired?”_ he asked her, frowning.

Nagini rolled her body over like a dog, looking up at Harry. _“Never tired,”_ she said, as though she had not spent the past two hours asleep, dead to the world.

Harry stroked his hand down her scales, the corners of his mouth still turned down.

Nagini hissed and slipped out of his lap, dropping to the floor. She didn’t take well to pity, Voldemort mused. He and Harry watched as she went for the door, likely off to go frighten whoever she found in the manor so as to assert her dominance.

“How long do snakes like her normally live?”

Voldemort paused. “Familiars have a longer lifespan than their mundane counterparts due to the magical energy imbued in them. I cannot state with accuracy how long a similar snake as a familiar would survive, but for mundane snakes of her kind, certainly under twenty years.”

Harry folded up the blanket Nagini had been using and set it aside. “So she’s been around a while,” Harry said, more to himself than to Voldemort. “Wonder what she thinks of it.”

“Do you still worry for the future?” Voldemort asked, curious. 

“I try not to think about it,” Harry said, shrugging. “I’ll take the years as they come, I guess.”

Voldemort set down the instrument he had been holding—a long copper rod with engraved runes meant to measure ambient magic.

“Are there goals you wish to achieve? Activities you dreamed of doing once you graduated Hogwarts?” Voldemort avoided mentioning the war, hoping that Harry also wanted to put such times behind them.

Harry’s hands twisted together; one of his nervous habits. “Not really. Helping people, mostly? But I already get to do that now—sort of.”

“If you have ambitions,” Voldemort said. “I am not unwilling to hear them out.”

“I never—” Harry’s face scrunched up, and he turned his head away to look at the shelf next to him. “I never thought about it, okay? I never thought I would get to _have_ a future.”

Voldemort had forgotten. Harry would have spent the last decade of his life expecting to die, and now… and _now…_

Thoughts of research were pushed aside as Voldemort said, “Now you do. Think, Harry, and imagine—the world stretches before you, unlimited and full of potential.”

Harry crossed his arms over his chest. He had forgone robes today in favour of a plain grey jumper, and so he looked smaller now, perched upon the wooden chair by the window, his head tucked down. “I’m okay with how things are,” Harry said. “I don’t need more.”

If Harry did not have the answer for himself, then more questions needed to be asked.

“What subjects did you enjoy at Hogwarts?”

“Um.” Harry shifted on his chair, sucking his lower lip into his mouth for a brief second. “I liked Defense, even though we always had a new professor every year. And Charms and Transfiguration, I guess.”

Voldemort thought back to what he knew of Harry’s time at Hogwarts. “I recall you turned down a Quidditch position in your first year.”

Harry’s shifted even more, fidgeting. “Yeah. My parents told me not to attract attention. But I was young and sort of stupid, and Draco Malfoy was just, erm, a prat.” Harry laughed a bit, then continued, “So I could have made the team right then and there. Youngest Seeker in a century, they said. But I had to turn it down, I knew that much. Mum and dad went spare when they found out, albeit for different reasons. I think dad would have been fine if I _had_ gone for it, only mum would have killed him...” Harry trailed off, blinking, and then he dropped his gaze back to his lap.

Voldemort found himself _wishing—_

“I… I do regret the deaths of your parents, Harry. I have said every drop of magical blood spilled is a waste—”

“Don’t,” Harry said. He was shaking now. “I don’t _want—”_ Harry drew in a loud, noisy breath, then blew it out all at once, the sound of it wet and distorted. “It’s over,” Harry continued, forcing the words out between gritted teeth. “There’s nothing you or I can do to change that. I can remember them as they were, how I loved them and how they loved me, and that’s it, alright?”

Discomfited and at a loss for what to do, Voldemort stayed where he was. Harry rubbed at his face with his sleeve, dislodging his glasses in the process.

“I’m going to go find Nagini,” Harry said eventually. “And make sure she hasn’t scared anyone to death yet.”

He departed, leaving Voldemort to think over what could be done. Forever was a long time, and Harry wanted to remember his friends, his family. He was afraid of forgetting them, of doing their memories a disservice.

Harry liked the photographs Voldemort had given him well enough, only photographs were not comparable to the reality of having someone at hand. Raising the dead aside, there were few solutions that would be palatable to someone as sensitive as Harry. There were many items in this room, many of them rare and expensive, only none of them would address the current problem.

Voldemort thought it over. What would allow Harry the closest connection with his departed friends and family? After asking this question, the solution became obvious.

* * *

In late July, Voldemort had procured the desired item and placed it into his study. A place that he and Harry both frequented, but also a place where Harry could find privacy if he so wished.

A small Pensieve carved from green alabaster and inlaid with pearls now rested in the corner of the room, next to the main bookshelf across from the fireplace.

Pristine and unused, the Pensieve had come at high cost, but such an item was worth the price it had extracted in exchange for the utility it offered. Pensieves were personal, not meant to be shared, and so this one would be only for Harry to use, to store memories of his loved ones.

Voldemort presented the Pensieve without commentary, trusting that Harry would understand the purpose of the gift.

Harry traced the rim with an index finger, blinking rapidly.

“You know how to use it?” Voldemort asked.

“Y-yeah.” Harry caressed the edge of the shallow dish with an unsteady hand, then added, in a soft tone, “Thank you.”

“I will leave you to your recollections.”

Satisfied, Voldemort exited the room. With time, Harry’s attachment to his memories would lessen, and he would require less use of the Pensieve. But for now, the Pensieve would serve to soothe Harry’s fears in such a way that required little effort on Voldemort’s part.

* * *

Autumn arrived, and Voldemort increased the frequency of their walks outside, hopeful that the exercise would do Nagini some good. She complained of the cool air, but was eventually cowed by promises of being carried by Harry once she grew tired.

“You had Nagini before you made her a Horcrux, right?” Harry asked.

“Yes,” Voldemort said, recalling the memories with fondness. “She had been my familiar for many years prior. My ability to converse in Parseltongue ensured a stronger bond between us than those that exist between typical wizards and their familiars. When she became my Horcrux, our bond intensified further.”

“Sometimes,” Harry said, “I can sense if she’s nearby. Is that normal? Because we’re,” he stumbled over the word, “connected?”

“It aligns with my own ability to sense her.” And his ability to sense Harry.

Harry stuffed his hands into his pockets and hunched his shoulders. “It’s not like when you’re nearby,” Harry continued. “It feels different.”

“I expect the connection is strongest when you are near me.”

Harry gazed out into the trees ahead, where Nagini was no doubt hiding. Then his eyes snapped back to Voldemort with a sudden clarity in them, green irises sharpening into flawless emeralds. “Have you tried testing that? Measuring the distance? How far away she can be before you stop sensing her, I mean.”

Voldemort halted in place as the meaning of the words hit. “Yes,” he said, “yes, that would work—” His hand, which had thrown itself out in gesticulation, clenched into a fist, and he swung into a pacing loop, mind awhirl with fresh thoughts. “We will track her distance and compare it with yours.”

Harry was nodding along, excited.

“Excellent idea,” Voldemort praised. This simple conversation felt like the most progress he had made since embarking on this project. “We will take down an initial set of data today, and track the progression over time, say, two or three months.”

“Okay,” said Harry. “And I can help?”

“With the measurements,” Voldemort said, making the snap decision. “The interpretations of our results may not be apparent for some time.” Voldemort would maintain control over the experiment, but Harry’s desire to help would also be appeased; it was the perfect solution.

* * *

Months passed. The regular testing Voldemort conducted on his familiar divulged a disturbing pattern: his connection with Nagini was weakening. Hardly noticeable on a daily or weekly basis, but the negative trend, however little, painted a worrisome picture.

Voldemort kept this information to himself. Though Harry had been moving along in his studies, there was no need to concern him...

They were now far into winter, and the manor was quiet. Voldemort had mandated visits only for matters of great import, and so the manor was now less of a base for command and more of a proper living space. Voldemort had ordered extra blankets for all the rooms, in case Nagini came in looking for warmth, but they were partly for Harry’s benefit as well.

One night they were in the study together, reading silently, and Harry had one of said blankets draped over his shoulders like a cape as he said, “I think Nagini might be sick.”

The book on immune systems was in Harry’s lap, spread open to one of the latter chapters. Harry had reread this book many times; Voldemort was unsure why, but he had never bothered to ask.

“What makes you say that?” Voldemort asked, keeping his question devoid of overt inflection.

Harry looked down at the carpet, shuffling his feet. “She’s sleeping a lot, more than usual. Or what I think is more than usual? And she doesn’t say so, but she gets tired more quickly. It’s not a huge thing, just what I’ve noticed ‘cause we spend a lot of time together.”

“I see.” If Harry was noticing changes, then the issue had progressed beyond the point of denial.

“Should I be worried?” Harry asked. “Maybe she should be looked over by Ernie. Or if there are specific healers for familiars, we should get one of those.”

“I am monitoring the situation,” Voldemort said briskly. “You need not concern yourself.” With a snap of his fingers, the book flew out from Harry’s possession, landing in Voldemort’s outstretched hand.

“So she is sick,” Harry said, frowning.

Voldemort cursed to himself and waited to see if Harry would push the matter further. When Harry remained quiet, Voldemort felt a sudden irritation wash over him. He stood, swept past Harry, and left the room, unwilling to look at those sympathetic green eyes any longer.

In the past, such a dark mood would have been remedied with a torture session or two, an exercise of his supremacy, a release of restless, raging energy. But Wizarding Britain had settled into an era of peace, and so such an activity was no longer… viable.

Besides, it was best to avoid torturing prisoners while Harry was in the manor. No doubt Harry would attempt to volunteer himself as a substitute. Voldemort was in no mood to entertain the ensuing argument as Harry became a proponent for morals, or kindness, or whichever heroic mantle he had decided to represent today.

Voldemort took dinner alone in his rooms, paging through the half-dozen books he owned on Horcruxes. At the current rate of deterioration, Nagini had, at most, five years before their connection failed entirely. And once that connection failed… then what?

Frustrations mounting, Voldemort turned his attention to the book he’d taken from Harry. Taking it had been an impulsive decision triggered by a desire to know what about this subject interested Harry so much. Had this book prompted Harry’s question?

Opening to the chapter Harry had been looking at, Voldemort scanned the contents. The writing was heavily archaic and technical; Harry must have had to reread this book a few times to absorb the meaning. But Voldemort remembered this chapter well, and thus was able to summarize the information quickly.

Muggles died for mundane reasons. Illness, old age; the bodies they were dependent on eventually failing them. Their health declined, their hearts and minds deteriorating. Weaker, less powerful; this was only a further sign of their lower place on the hierarchy. Muggles were commonplace and beneath magical beings.

Magical beings were different. Bodies sustained on magic were resilient, less prone to common illnesses and physical injuries. Magic could keep oneself alive beyond the norm—hence the longer lifespan when compared to mundane counterparts. It was only when magic failed, fading away, that death came knocking.

And so Voldemort had sought a solution for this with his Horcruxes. His magic would never fail, and death would never take him.

Having a Horcrux permanently sealed a piece of soul and magic inside of an object, thus ensuring eternal life. The magic imbued would not fade, and so the soul fragment would live on forever.

But Nagini was not an object. She was a living creature with her own magic; magic that _could_ fade. Magic was consumed by her very existence, an existence tied to the piece of Voldemort’s soul that resided within her. Magic that would someday fade to nothing, leaving her bereft of that which had sustained her.

Voldemort dropped the book to the floor. The potential loss of a Horcrux did not bother him, as he had others to safeguard his immortality, but the potential loss of _Nagini—_

Voldemort had sought to place himself above death, and he had succeeded.

He had, foolishly so, assumed the same would apply to his familiar. And not only Nagini, but _Harry—_

Harry was not exempt from this, either.

Voldemort’s two companions, two that he had believed would follow him into the vast, unending stretch of the future that lay before them. The golden era of peace he had envisioned was now marred beyond recognition. 

There would be no rest, could be no respite, not while this potential for unacceptable losses remained.

Because this _was_ unacceptable, intolerable, and Voldemort would need to apply himself fully to the task of ensuring their survival.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from the beginning, then:
> 
> _The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches.  
>  Born when the seventh month died, the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal.  
> He will defy the Dark Lord thrice, and he will become the Dark Lord’s greatest challenger.  
> He will live while the Dark Lord reigns, and the Dark Lord will rule as long as he survives._
> 
> named events in the prophecy are tied to specific elements of the story.
> 
>  **'mark him as his equal' = the scar that voldemort carved into his chest.**  
>  yes, harry does have the lightning bolt scar on his forehead, but that was the act of magic, of lily's sacrifice. and in this case, voldemort didn't truly start to see harry differently until harry offered himself in place of the cattermoles. it is then we see voldemort's slow descent into obsession, and later, affection.
> 
> **'defy the Dark Lord thrice' = the cattermoles, remus lupin, ron and hermione.**  
>  all of them permitted to live because of harry's interference. because harry's morality defies expectations; he is willing to do anything to save people. the fourth time, the lives of the order members are offered freely. harry never would have refused the opportunity to lead the negotiations, and voldemort knows this. they have come to an understanding.
> 
>  **'become the Dark Lord’s greatest challenger' = ???**  
>  this will happen in the next chapter. any guesses?
> 
> and then, of course, the last line of the prophecy... the interpretation remains to be seen.
> 
> thank you for reading.
> 
> **next chapter we return to harry's pov.**


	25. Perspective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Voldemort had shed his heavy outer robes and had his shirtsleeves pushed up past the elbows. But he also had ceased all movement in this moment; his shoulders were fraught with tension, his right hand clenched around a glass vial that Harry was sure must be on the verge of shattering to splinters. From the way his eyes flashed, Harry could tell that Voldemort was about to either throw something or blow something up.

Harry was twenty-nine now, and next year he would be thirty. He thought about the number of his age often. What it meant in the grand scheme of things, how much bigger that number stood to grow in the future.

He had told Voldemort that he would take the years as they came. Only, hitting thirty felt like an invisible line riddled with hidden meanings; he would soon be leaping over it, no seatbelt on, no safety catches in place. Thirty years out of an immeasurable denominator. 

When Harry had asked her, Nagini had said that the number of years in her life had mattered little. She measured life in moments, in the pleasures she sought, in the achievements she won, in the time she spent with her Lord and his followers. It was a simple way to look at things, and Harry hoped he could manage it.

Still, Harry was mostly content with the way everything was. Unfortunately, that didn’t mean there was nothing to worry about.

Following Harry’s confirmation that Nagini was sick, Voldemort had grown… well, impulsive was a good way of describing it. The mercurial mood from before the war ended had returned, and Voldemort’s fuse was unbelievably short for anyone who was not Harry or Nagini.

Not one had been seriously harmed just yet, but Harry felt it would only be a matter of time before it happened.

But it was no surprise, really, that Voldemort was working himself into mania over Nagini’s weakened state. Harry still had no idea what had caused her illness. Voldemort refused to talk about it at all, and Harry wasn’t knowledgeable enough on familiars and their possible illnesses to be able to figure it out on his own.

Harry had debated sending an owl to Ernie, but such an action came with its own risks. Harry didn’t want to get Ernie in trouble for something that the Healer hadn’t asked to be involved in.

Which, unfortunately, left Harry on his own to run damage control in the manor and at the office.

* * *

Narcissa was one of few people who could still frequent the manor without any issue. Harry often wondered if she was still reporting back to Voldemort with their conversations, or if their interactions were now built on a mutual appreciation of each other.

Harry stirred a spoon through his cup of tea. Then he tapped it on the edge, dislodging the droplet that clung to the spoon, and set the spoon down onto the saucer below. Narcissa was distracted today; she kept having to undo mistakes in her embroidery. So Harry had let them sit mostly in silence, thinking that she might feel comfortable enough to share whatever she was bothering her.

“How are Draco and Astoria doing?” Harry asked, when it became apparent she was not about to share. The subject of her son was one she always liked to talk about, so Harry hoped it could coax her into a happier mood.

But Narcissa’s eyes began to water, much to Harry’s horror. He had never seen her cry before, and he was unsure what level of comfort would be appropriate to offer.

She produced a handkerchief to mop at her eyes, sniffling. “We have received terrible news,” she said.

Harry allowed her to compose herself before he asked, “What’s wrong?”

And so Narcissa proceeded to explain, in clipped and clinical terms, the blood curse that had afflicted Astoria’s family for centuries. It had surfaced in Astoria’s blood after generations of dormancy; she would deteriorate over time, weakening until the curse took her life.

“They are expecting a child soon,” Narcissa finished, and she once again appeared close to tears. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Does… does the Dark Lord know?”

“He is aware of the situation,” Narcissa said. She had long since set her embroidery aside, and now her hands twisted themselves in her lap. “He had said he would seek a solution, only—” She stopped, glancing up at him. “Do you know? Has any progress been made?”

Harry didn’t know, but did have his suspicions, and he would feel terrible if he told her that Voldemort had been preoccupied with other things. “I don’t know how well things are going,” Harry said. “He hasn’t been telling me much lately. But I know he values you and your family, Narcissa.” The words tasted sour in his mouth, and Harry resolved to bring this topic up with Voldemort at the next opportunity. “I’ll be sure to remind him, when I can, and I’ll let you know what he says.”

“Thank you.” Narcissa smiled. “I appreciate your help in this.”

“I just hope that I can help,” Harry said honestly. “Maybe you should have Astoria send along any relevant information to me as well, and I’ll see what I can do at the Ministry.”

“I will be sure to do so.” She stood, moving towards him, and placed both of her hands atop his. Her eyes were brighter, her smile more hopeful. “You are a good man, Harry. Your position is a credit to your talents and your compassion. I know that, with you by our Lord’s side, there is nothing that cannot be achieved.”

* * *

Voldemort continued to work in the room Harry had begun to think of as a laboratory. It was where Voldemort conducted his grander tests and experiments, where there was room for the wide table that held a frightening number of artifacts, many of them no doubt dark in nature.

Today in particular, things were going poorly. Of course, Harry still had little to no clue what was actually going on, but he could discern from Voldemort’s disposition whether the work was productive or not.

Nagini was off wandering in the manor, leaving Harry to read and doze in and out of wakefulness. The air was thicker than normal, a result of that heavy magic in the air, hot and electric. But the magic was familiar—it was Voldemort’s magic. Harry had spent enough time around the man to feel relatively at ease even when surrounded by that suffocating aura of power.

But right now, said aura was gradually passing over into warning levels of discomfort, and so Harry stretched, yawning, looking over to see what was going on.

Voldemort had shed his heavy outer robes and had his shirtsleeves pushed up past the elbows. But he also had ceased all movement in this moment; his shoulders were fraught with tension, his right hand clenched around a glass vial that Harry was sure must be on the verge of shattering to splinters. From the way his eyes flashed, Harry could tell that Voldemort was about to either throw something or blow something up.

“Hey,” Harry said, standing. His hand was now outstretched, though he wasn’t sure what he expected to be able to do from this distance. “Hey—”

The vial cracked, which was expected at this point, only the glass slid through the skin clutching it, striking a red line across Voldemort’s palm.

Harry ran forward without thinking, pushing past the thunderous atmosphere encircling the Dark Lord. He took Voldemort by the arm, leading him away from the table, then slid his hands up to grip lightly at Voldemort’s biceps.

“Hey,” Harry repeated, softer, less urgently than before. “It’s okay. It’s okay. Let me see your hand.”

The palm was relinquished, only the skin was already knitting itself back together, morphing into a scar, then a pink line, then nothing, leaving only the few beads of red that had bled to the surface. Harry blinked, and then the red vanished as well, leaving only clean, dry skin. Wandless healing magic?

“It’s inconsequential,” Voldemort said in a monotone. “You see that you need not concern yourself with it.”

Harry eyed Voldemort, searching for the answers that had not been provided, and decided to bite the bullet. “What is it, then, you’re keeping from me? Because I know that’s not inconsequential.”

Voldemort twisted away. Or tried to, because Harry held fast to Voldemort’s elbow, keeping him in place.

“Release me,” Voldemort said, glaring, a latent tone of command lacing the words. “Or else you will regret it.”

“Oh?” Harry said, challenging. “Will I?”

They held their respective positions, both of them immovable, rooted to the floor of the laboratory.

“What’s going on with Nagini?” Harry pressed, when Voldemort failed to move away. “What aren’t you telling me? I know that she’s sick—is it something that only happens to Horcruxes? Is that why you won’t tell me anything?”

Voldemort’s face contorted, handsome features stretching into vulgar lines of anger and disgust. “I have told you I have it under control.”

“Bullshit,” Harry snapped. “You’re stressed _all the time,_ and you yell at everyone who isn’t me or Nagini.”

Voldemort grit his teeth, yanking his arm out of Harry’s grasp.

“You’re not in this alone,” Harry said. “I’m here to help you. If there’s something wrong with Nagini, I want to help.”

_Come on. Let me help you._

“You—” Voldemort started. His features were still contorted, misshapen, carrying an expression that Harry did not recognize. Voldemort’s breaths passed irregularly for a moment, chest straining with some unknown struggle, and then he said, “Your book. On the differences between magical and mundane beings.”

Harry struggled to follow the topic change. “Yes?” Harry remembered the book. Voldemort had taken it away.

“Do you recall the chapter on what causes the body to fail?” The question was calm, instructional, and Harry could sense them falling into the familiar pattern of mentor and mentee that had kept them afloat during those first few months of work at the Ministry.

“Yes,” Harry said, confidently this time. “It’s different for Muggles than it is for us, and for creatures like Nagini. It’s why some magical people or creatures can live to be a hundred and sixty or older.”

“Precisely.” Voldemort nodded almost absently, then his focus sharpened on Harry. “Let us retire to the study. We shall continue this conversation there.”

* * *

The fireplace in the study was already lit when they entered. Harry felt he was seeing the room with new eyes. The cool evergreen rugs, the polished wooden bookcases. The neat scatter of papers on the Dark Lord’s desk. The Pensieve in the corner. His Pensieve.

Across the room, one of the desk drawers slid open, a book rising out of it. Harry recognized the cover as that of the book they had spoken on.

As the book continued its rise, it opened up, the pages moving on their own. The book floated over to Harry, who took it in hand just as the pages settled.

Voldemort spoke into the silence: “What do you know of Horcruxes?”

“Not much,” Harry admitted. Then he stared down at the open book. It was the section they had discussed. Harry had read this book many times, wondering if it could give him any insight on his new lifespan.

It was a book written from a magical perspective that looked down upon Muggles and mundane creatures. Mundane and magical lifespans were far apart from each other, but Harry knew that he would outlive them all. 

“Then I will explain,” said Voldemort, and he settled into his chair with a weary motion.

Harry followed suit, seating himself, unsure what to expect.

“Horcruxes,” Voldemort began, “play host to a portion of the soul. This portion is sustained through the permanency of the host’s physical form, thus preventing a loss of magical energy.”

“Which means they last forever,” Harry stated.

“Yes.”

Voldemort did not continue, which Harry took to mean that he had all of the relevant information and was expected to come up with the answer himself.

The magic contained in a Horcrux kept it alive. And this was related to the book Harry was holding, because magic was what kept magical people and creatures alive, too. So there was a link between the two concepts, and that link was what was causing the problem.

Horcruxes could last forever. People could not. Which meant that a _living_ Horcrux existed in the overlap between the two concepts. And that meant—

No, no, that couldn’t be. Only—

All of that paranoid, unpredictable behaviour: Voldemort’s irascible temper, his inability to restrain his natural magic. Those feelings of care that Voldemort would not acknowledge.

Harry had named love as a universal concept, only there was one more thing that was just as universal and no less powerful in that it affected them all.

Harry lifted his eyes to meet Voldemort’s.

Green touching red, two souls connected, one of them tethered to the other.

“I’m going to die,” Harry said plainly.

Not tomorrow, not in the next year, or decade, or century. But eventually Harry’s magic would wane, dwindling, dying away, and Harry would pass into the afterlife he had once so eagerly sought.

Albus had spoken at great length about Voldemort’s fear of death. A result of an impoverished childhood, of growing up in the midst of two great wars—magical and Muggle alike. A primal fear facilitated by an inclination towards dark magic and an unquenchable thirst for power.

And this, this was as close to that fear as Harry could have gotten short of attempting to kill the Dark Lord himself.

_“You will not,”_ Voldemort bit out. “I will sort a solution. We have plenty of time.”

Harry did, as he was still young and there was time for him to grow old. But Nagini did not, would not, and so there lay the current heart of the matter.

“How long for Nagini?” Harry asked, fearing the answer. “How much longer?”

A pause, the longest pause so far, and then the answer:

“Five years, at the most.”

Harry set the book aside. He felt the urge to stand again, though he knew, logically, there was nothing he could do to remedy the situation at this moment. Five years. Five years for them to find a solution, or—

It was with some shock that Harry realized what this meant.

Because he could help Voldemort fix this, to save Nagini, and that would mean he would be ensuring his own survival in the process. If Nagini lived, so would Harry. Their fates were now entwined. And if Nagini lived, if Harry lived, then so would Voldemort’s reign.

Was that why Voldemort had kept this from him? Out of concern for losing control of his empire? Or was it because he was genuinely afraid that Harry, too, would be leaving him someday?

“I helped you once before,” Harry said at last. “With Nagini. I helped save her. Do you think my feelings have changed since then?”

Voldemort was watching the fireplace, his face now drained of all emotion. He looked tired, Harry thought. He looked tired as he should, as a man who had lived many, many decades ought to look.

“I do not,” Voldemort said. “I believe your affections for her are genuine.”

Harry rose to his feet, carried himself to the Dark Lord, knelt lightly upon the floor. This task would be the most difficult he had ever undertaken. More complicated than swearing loyalty to the man he was prophesied to defeat; more daunting than the idea of accepting his own eternal existence.

In this, he could only follow one path, because here was the representation of evil he had been raised to fear, the Dark Lord he had permitted himself to humanize, the man he had decided to save.

“I promised you loyalty,” Harry said, his voice so low as to be barely heard above the crackling of the fireplace beside him. “Do you doubt that?”

Voldemort was now looking at him, his red gaze reflecting the dancing flames. “I… do not.” 

“Then trust me,” Harry said, “when I say I’ll help. I just have one condition.” The familiar act of negotiation between them lay here, as well.

“Oh?” Voldemort stiffened, eyes narrowing in the low light of the room; the whites were nearly gone. “And what might this condition be?”

“We will try our best to find a solution,” Harry said. “For Nagini, and for me. But if we fail—”

“I will not fail—”

“If _we_ do,” Harry continued firmly, ignoring the interruption, “then you have to accept it. That we’re going to die someday, Nagini and I.”

Voldemort refused to accept failure. But more than that, he refused to accept death. So Harry would have to prepare him for this, to instill the lesson that countless others failed to do over the course of their lifetimes. The lesson Harry had taken to heart at the age of seventeen.

“Death is part of the way the universe works,” Harry said, “and if you have to accept that you are not above it, that you cannot change it, then I will help you do so.”

Harry had accepted his own death long ago, and now he would teach Voldemort to do the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i forgot i was sitting on this chapter this entire time lmao. since i'm stuck with what i'm working on for the next part, i am publishing this in the hopes that feedback will help jumpstart my brain into finishing the next chapter 🤔
> 
> anyways next chapter will seal some fates,,, maybe,, we'll see 👀


	26. Foundations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For some time now, Harry had wondered if Voldemort believed in the afterlife. Harry had dithered over whether to ask, then decided it was unlikely he would receive a serious answer. Whatever Voldemort truly thought about death, he was in no hurry to share. Harry could only surmise that Voldemort believed that death was the certain, inevitable end, because there was no other explanation for the man’s behaviour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you've read the warning tags on this story, then you should know what's coming.

Over seven years had passed since that night in the study, and hope of finding answers had deteriorated with each season that passed. Harry and Voldemort had prolonged Nagini’s life, sacrificing the lives of other magical familiars to keep her own magic alive. Only eventually that, too, had failed, her body rejecting the foreign magical energy, her immune system failing further.

Harry had guided Voldemort as best he could, only the Dark Lord’s stubbornness rivalled Harry’s own in this; Voldemort possessed a fear so visceral, so deeply rooted that Harry doubted even the passage of another seven years would put any dent into it. The fervor, the denial, the conviction that there was nothing made unconquerable while magic existed—Lord Voldemort bowed to no one, and death was no different.

Though he and Voldemort never spoke of the number, Harry estimated his own lifespan would last at least three centuries, if not more. Three hundred years together while they continued to seek a solution. Somehow, the assignment of this certainty—three centuries—calmed Harry in a way that the concept of eternity had never managed.

Since that night in the study, they had not spoken of Harry’s impending fate, and they had not spoken of the prophecy. The avoidance of the problem was obvious. Pushing the topic of conversation would not be received well, Harry was sure.

So Harry sought other ways of providing reassurance; kind words, casual touches. Reminders meant to ground Voldemort to the present rather than the future. Reminders that life was worth focusing on, not death.

But death was hard to ignore when it traced their footsteps, a sullen, impatient creature snapping at their heels wherever they tread.

As the possible turned to the inevitable, Voldemort grew sullen and irritable, his demeanour worsening alongside Nagini’s health. Harry kept them all inside the house as much as he could towards the end, knowing that time they spent around others would be time that Voldemort would use to close himself off further.

* * *

Nagini and Harry were curled up on the floor of the study, next to the fireplace. Harry had just finished a visit into his Pensieve, and he did not feel like talking. Nagini was coiled around his arms and shoulders underneath the cloak he was wearing, her presence like a comforting hug.

In the fireplace, the flames danced, flickering and sparking. Brilliant and blazing with life, reflecting off of Nagini’s scales.

Harry now spent a lot of time carrying her around. She was too weak to move much on her own. Even her prey was hand-delivered to her, much to her embarrassment and irritation. But Harry took care to be gentle, to maintain eye contact, to reassure her that he wanted to help and it was no trouble.

Nagini did not fear death. She mostly worried over Voldemort. Harry did not attempt to dissuade her from it, because he felt her concerns were valid. The two of them knew that Voldemort was ill-equipped to handle her passing, regardless of how accepting she was of it.

Whenever he was alone, Harry alternated between fretting and panicking. He ran through all the possible scenarios, but he knew he could never foresee and plan for all of them. Nagini’s death would change everything; he could not guess what Voldemort’s reaction would be.

But they had weathered years of this balancing act—an exercise in restraint and patience for the both of them. Harry had to hope that his efforts would be enough, that Voldemort would be receptive to the support Harry had done his best to provide.

_“Ssoon,”_ Nagini said, her head nudging lightly against Harry’s chest. She had once said the subtle vibrations of his heartbeats were soothing.

Harry did not ask her what she meant; he already knew. He placed a hand on the top of her head, stroking softly. Soon.

* * *

When Nagini died, in the comfort of her master’s arms, watched over by Harry and Voldemort both, her eyes had slid shut, her body free of tremours. Peace at last.

Then the unexpected—the soul piece inside of her, now free, had reversed course, fusing back to the whole it had originally come from. Harry recalled, in the agonizing grief of the moment following, how Horcruxes could remerge with their host: remorse of the highest degree, pain that you had to really _feel._

There was no flash of light, no fancy magical afterglow. Only the fading of the dark, inky specter that had passed into the Dark Lord’s chest.

Voldemort had cradled Nagini, ominously silent. Then he had handed her gently to Harry, and then he had vanished.

The Dark Lord was gone for hours, leaving Harry to pace the empty manor, his chest tight and his head throbbing. Where had Voldemort gone; what was he doing? What toll had remorse taken on the man who claimed to despise love?

When Voldemort at last returned, he was filthy, smeared with the thick of it, covered with mud and grime, and Harry couldn’t bring himself to question it, to ask what had happened. He feared the worst, but he did not want it confirmed.

Once Voldemort’s robes were cleaned and the mess was gone, the Dark Lord hesitated. They were in the study, only an arm’s length away from each other. His shoulders were hunched over, and he appeared more vulnerable than Harry had ever seen him.

Harry stepped forward, folding Voldemort into a careful embrace. The fresh scent of the Cleaning Charms wafted from the heavy fabric, reminding Harry of the forest during springtime.

Voldemort’s chin settled atop Harry’s head like it belonged there. Then his voice said, in a deep, steady tone, “Not you,” and his hand cupped the back of Harry’s neck like a lifeline.

Harry could not repeat the words back in good conscience, could not make the promise that he would stay alive forever. So he settled for holding tighter, clutching, hoping that this would bring some comfort to the mourning man in his arms.

* * *

They travelled to Albania, skirting the international Apparition laws and breaking several local ones. It was one of Nagini’s favourite places: a spot in the woods where she had enjoyed the lush greenery and the gorgeous mountain ranges full of interesting prey.

Voldemort constructed a grand tomb. White marble for the base and a glass cover pressed with dried flowers. In death, she would be preserved as she had not managed in life.

Harry said a few words while Voldemort stood in silence beside him. His brief speech was delivered in Parseltongue; the dead language that only the three of them understood. A language that would someday die if Harry passed on.

“Do you want to say anything?” Harry asked, once he felt it suitable to do so.

Voldemort breathed a soft sigh, the sound hardly audible over the quiet rustle of their surroundings. “No,” he said. The slant of his mouth was not exactly a frown, but Harry felt he knew what it meant.

“I miss her,” Harry said. “It’s okay to miss her.”

A noise of assent answered him. Eyes fixed straight ahead, Harry placed his hand on the crook of the Dark Lord’s arm, applying gentle pressure.

For some time now, Harry had wondered if Voldemort believed in the afterlife. Harry had dithered over whether to ask, then decided it was unlikely he would receive a serious answer. Whatever Voldemort truly thought about death, he was in no hurry to share. Harry could only surmise that Voldemort believed that death was the certain, inevitable end, because there was no other explanation for the man’s behaviour.

But death didn’t _have_ to be the end of everything, Harry thought. Even if there was no next great adventure, there were parts of life that could last beyond death. Memories of friendship. Memories of love.

“I put memories of her into my Pensieve,” said Harry. “Maybe you could do the same thing with yours.”

Voldemort shifted, his body turning in Harry’s general direction. Even now, his posture was proud. Unbroken by grief, unfazed by death.

Harry wanted to tell him it was just the two of them here, that it was a safe place and there was no need to hide anymore, only he didn’t know how to phrase it. 

Voldemort’s hand rose, drifting up through the cool forest air and coming to a rest in the space next to the left side of Harry’s face. The hand paused there, uncertain, and then Harry felt the pad of the thumb rest lightly against his cheek. The thumb was followed by the palm, which was solid and warm compared to the austere atmosphere.

Harry exhaled quietly. His skin felt feverish where they were touching. But he held still. Their eyes locked, and Harry was greeted by the usual sensations of comfort he associated from being connected, however peripherally, to the Dark Lord’s mind.

Voldemort had always been a cornerstone in his life. He was the villain that Harry had been destined to give his life to defeat. And now… now Harry rarely spent a day without Voldemort by his side.

But Voldemort’s life had been also shaped by Harry’s presence for the past decade—nearly a decade, at any rate—to a startling degree. They were no longer the same people.

Harry had made compromises upon compromises, whittling away at himself, folding into the space that Voldemort had provided for him. But there were pieces of the person his parents had raised that lived on, and empathy remained the loudest fragment.

Perhaps because of this, Voldemort had grown to care for him.

Voldemort _did_ care. This Harry was certain of, had been certain of since that day he’d first taken ill in the manor. Harry’s presence and opinions mattered to Voldemort, and Harry had used this to his own advantage, exercising what influence he had, persuading Voldemort to be indulgent and more compassionate.

This battle of wills had gone on for so long that their constant negotiations were habitual. Harry no longer hesitated when proposing bargains for the lives and well-being of others.

Ten years of Harry’s life with the Dark Lord as his keeper, and at his current age, Harry was approximately one-tenth of the way to the end.

Where would they be in ten years from now? In twenty years? In fifty?

This was only going to get harder. Harry just had to hope that, before the end, he could convince Voldemort to accept the one thing he had always feared: death.

Because if Harry was to die, Voldemort would miss him, and that was a dangerous thing.

Harry’s greatest fear was that Voldemort would ask him to make a Horcrux. But after some further reading, Harry had realized that to split his soul in such a way would destabilize his magical core entirely. He was already a Horcrux—a whole soul plus extra.

So the only way for Harry to create a Horcrux was if Voldemort removed his soul piece. Harry doubted that Voldemort would ever show a speck of remorse for the death of Albus Dumbledore.

Voldemort withdrew, his hand snapping backward, his manner once again perfunctory. “We will return to the manor now.”

Harry blinked, but he did not protest. He only watched as the Dark Lord closed the wards surrounding the area, layering powerful spells together to mask the grave and its surroundings.

The threads of magic wove delicately around them, pulling the protections into place. Harry could recognize most of the spells now; he could even cast some of them himself. But he held his silence while Voldemort worked.

And then, when it was done, Voldemort offered his arm, which Harry took, and they Disapparated together.

* * *

The next morning, Voldemort acted as though everything was fine. Harry had to marvel at Voldemort’s ability to repress his emotions and just go back to work—how could anyone function like that?

Harry hovered all day, waiting for the inevitable burst of the dam. Waiting for Voldemort to snap and go on a Crucio spree, or whatever else he did nowadays to let off steam when he thought Harry wasn’t paying attention. 

They spent time in the study reading, and they did not visit the laboratory. In fact, Voldemort was much calmer than Harry had expected. The demeanour of peace left Harry feeling suspicious.

Their meals, taken together, were quiet, and Voldemort asked after Narcissa’s family, to which Harry responded to the best of his ability.

Astoria and Draco had a son now—a healthy boy named Scorpius. Harry had met the kid a few times; he looked like his father in miniature but was boisterous and cheerful like his mother.

Harry did not want any child to grow up without a mother. Not him, not Voldemort, and not this small boy who reminded him of his childhood rival. But blood curses were unique to the caster and victim both, and the curse that had afflicted the Greengrass family was powerful enough to span generations. It was a trial to even understand the curse, let alone find a way to undo it.

And though Harry would never say such things aloud, Voldemort was arguably the most brilliant mind in the nation; if he could not find answers, who else could? Inquiries had already been made abroad, and Harry knew that Astoria was being seen to by the best Healers in Europe, if not the world—he had drawn up the contracts himself. But despite the lack of progress, Harry refused to lose hope that a cure could be found.

After supper, they retired to one of the sitting rooms. There was a grand piano there, and a bookshelf full of fiction novels. In time, Harry had read through them all and begun to add his own to the collection. Books he had chosen for himself, and books that had been given to him.

Once settled, Voldemort read aloud from one of the many books they had recently acquired on myths involving death. It was a new obsession, a shot in the dark—a journey into the obscure and the unlikely. And there were many obscure myths about death; Voldemort could recite some of them even without the books at hand.

Harry didn’t want an immortal life, but he also didn’t want to leave Voldemort alone. That loneliness, Harry knew, would destroy everything he had worked so hard to achieve with their relationship. The man separated from the tyrant, the benevolence separated from the selfishness. Without Harry by his side, Voldemort would revert to his previous cruelty and indifference.

No man was an island. Voldemort might believe otherwise about himself, but he was as human at heart as everyone else was, and the human heart would always have a need for companionship.

* * *

Harry’s suspicions of Voldemort’s behaviour were confirmed when Ernie visited later that week. Ernie was very nervous and very much uninformed on why he had been summoned.

Voldemort dragged everyone into Harry’s room, sat himself down in his usual armchair, and then ordered a full check-up. Of everything. Ernie was supposed to look Harry over for every single ailment or malady he had or could ever possibly have.

To refuse at this point would invite a lot of unwanted problems, so Harry grit his teeth and sat through a detailed consultation on his family’s medical history, an exploration of his current health status, and a plethora of Healer-grade detection spells.

Ernie’s results uncovered a lot of ‘maybes’ and a few ‘probablys’. Nothing absolute, nothing concrete, but certainly enough to cause more unnecessary worry.

Harry was fairly sure he wasn’t about to drop dead from spattergroit any time soon, even if he was particularly susceptible to it.

“Is that all?” Voldemort asked, once the report was done. “Nothing else?”

“Mr. Potter is in perfect health at the moment, my Lord,” Ernie said. “I don’t see any causes for concern. Was there… something in particular you wanted out of this appointment?”

Harry had been wondering that same thing. What was the point of all this? Was it so they could feel they’d made some progress?

“A _professional_ assessment of his health,” Voldemort answered.

Ernie stiffened, then offered in a hesitant tone, “I’d say Mr. Potter is in perfect health, my Lord. There is no reason to think he will not live a full, healthy life as many wizards of his power and status do. With the proper monitoring, we will be able to detect any inherited issues early and treat them.”

The air became positively charged in the span of a few seconds, enough that even Ernie, who was not attuned to Voldemort in the way that Harry was, paled in response to the sudden change in their surroundings.

“Hey!” said Harry, injecting volume into his voice. “None of that. It won’t change anything.”

Voldemort sneered, his wand now raised, and Ernie let out an incoherent whimper of fear. “I do not tolerate incompetence.”

“He’s done nothing wrong,” Harry said wearily. “Just let him go, please?”

Voldemort’s arm dropped a few degrees, and Harry sucked in a slow breath—

The arm rose again in a flash, but before Harry could protest at all, Voldemort spoke:

_“Stupefy. Obliviate.”_

Ernie stumbled backwards as though startled, then fell to the ground in a heap, limbs and robes askew.

“Good enough?” Voldemort asked, sarcasm dripping.

Harry eyed Ernie’s unconscious, but still breathing, form. “Yeah,” said Harry. “Good enough.”

“I could still kill him.” Voldemort stared down, the lines of his body radiating tension, anger, that urge to _destroy_ that Harry recognized so easily.

Harry conveyed his disapproval with a flat look. “But you won’t.”

The yew wand in Voldemort’s hand twirled between long fingers. “If you insist,” said Voldemort eventually.

Harry rolled his eyes. “Just imagine how hard it would be for you to break in a new Healer,” Harry told him. “Think of all that effort.”

Voldemort scoffed, but he stowed his wand away. “You clean this up, then. I will be in my office,” he said, and then he left, the door shutting loudly behind him.

Harry sighed, rubbing at his forehead. Not all problems could be solved by walking away from them in a dramatic huff.

Today hadn’t been about getting a proper checkup. Harry was fairly sure about that. This outburst was borne of frustration and a need to place the blame—Ernie had just been the unfortunate scapegoat.

Eventually, Harry would force a proper conversation about the real issue. But for now, he’d have to approach the topic with care. Harry would lay the foundations for Voldemort’s humanity, brick by brick, building upon those pillars of support that he had crafted, and he would have to hope that the structure would hold, even in his absence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i had the worst time in the world trying to write this chapter, so i don't really have anything to add other than i hope it isn't terrible sdjkgljkg
> 
> sorry nagini ;w;


	27. Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry had never numbed himself to the concept of death. Losses hurt. Losing people hurt. And though he had been in a hurry to die, he had never looked forward to the pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lots of heavy concepts and conversations in this chapter, please take care.

Harry was hesitant to leave Voldemort alone. Harry didn’t believe his lessons of morality had taken fully, and he was well aware that Voldemort was mostly humouring him. Voldemort would follow Harry’s model of right from wrong when it suited him, but that was the extent of it. 

It was the opposite of feeling suffocated, because Harry had chosen to be here, to help. Any time he left, he felt like he was betraying that promise.

But Harry had other promises to fulfill. Other obligations that he had sworn to keep.

Thus Harry would occasionally find himself at Malfoy Manor.

Astoria was not yet very ill, but she was prone to severe bouts of weakness and shortness of breath that confined her to the house.

So Harry had taken to researching stop-gap measures that would ease her suffering while others (Voldemort, professional Healers) worked on a proper cure. There were many remedies that had fallen to the wayside in their modern society, and Harry was confident that at least one of them would prove to be helpful.

This was a necessary task, he told himself, and it was not wrong to leave the manor when Astoria also needed his help. Voldemort might need him, but Harry needed to feel like himself, too, and that meant he had to stretch his legs every so often.

* * *

“Did you want something to eat, Harry?”

There was already a tea tray with some biscuits on it on his right side. “No, thank you,” Harry said. “I’m fine.”

Astoria didn’t embroider. She played the piano, or she baked, or she read gigantic books on ancient runes that Harry couldn’t even begin to decipher. Those were hobbies she engaged in with her free time—the rest of it was consumed by mothering Scorpius and managing the Malfoy estate.

Next year, Scorpius would be Hogwarts age. It was strange to think about—Harry often wondered if all his other classmates had children. Some of them did, and he frequently thought about reaching out to them, just to reconnect.

But it had been so long now, and Harry was no longer sure of the person he had once been. The regret and the tattered remains of his shame hung heavy. His closest friends were gone, and it was easier to avoid the rest, to let them think what they wanted.

“So I took your suggestion on the ward stones,” Astoria said, summoning a large tome with the wave of her hand. “I based the design off of what you told me the Dark Lord used for the wards on the borders.” She flipped to a page and handed it over.

“And?” Harry asked, pulling the book onto his lap. It was, admittedly, as heavy as it looked.

“I managed to dismantle most of the dangerous ones and replace them with safer wards. There are two more that I might want to ask you about, once you have the time.”

“We could go look at them right now,” Harry suggested, already half-rising from his chair.

“Sit down,” Astoria said, exasperated. “You’re here as a guest today. Not so I can use you as my personal workhorse.”

Harry handed her book back to her. “But I will be a workhorse eventually, I take it.”

“Absolutely.” Astoria shut the tome and set it aside. “I surround myself with only the _best,_ you know. It’s a Malfoy’s prerogative.”

Harry laughed a little, watched how her eyes sparkled in response.

“I made berry tarts,” Astoria said, clasping her hands together in her lap, a beatific smile draped on her lips. “You should have some. Gluten-free,” she added, when Harry opened his mouth to protest.

Harry blinked. He’d forgotten about that. All of the food that he ate—either at home or at the office—was prepared by House-Elves who were aware of his dietary requirements, and so he’d grown used to just eating anything that was given to him.

The tart was warm when he picked it up. Harry bit into it with care, savouring the flavour. Buttery and sweet, crumbling to softness in his mouth. The berries had to have been fresh, he decided.

“Eat up,” Astoria said. “There’s plenty more. Draco says he’s on a diet, dramatic man.”

“He’s just worried about you,” Harry said, before he could think better of it.

Astoria smiled, eyes and mouth wrinkling around the corners. It was such a normal, human thing that Harry found himself fixated by it. With all the time he spent at the Ministry, or in meetings with Death Eaters, there was a veil of perfection that never faded. The life of a politician revolved around appearances, and Voldemort never aged.

But Astoria was genuine, real, and she did not hide behind the masks and glamours of her Pureblooded counterparts.

“I’ve had years to think about my illness,” Astoria said. Her fingers clasped the handle of her tea cup, raising it to her lips. She took a small sip, then set it back down. “My greatest wish is that I might live to see my son reach adulthood, but I’m not deluded into seeing it as a certainty.”

“You deserve to see it,” Harry said quietly. “We’re not going to give up.”

“We won’t,” Astoria agreed. “But I can’t live my life in two extremes. Knowing I’ll die, being certain I’ll live. I have this day, here, today. And if I have tomorrow, then all the better for it. But I do have today, and I can spend that day right now with you, and with my husband, and with my son.”

She paused, hand returning to her lap, then finished, “When I go someday, as all people do, I want to know I never succumbed to the pointless despair of loneliness if I could help it.”

* * *

“Do you have any regrets?”

Voldemort paused, page of the book he was holding suspended mid flip, and Harry almost regretted letting the question slip forth.

Then Voldemort’s red eyes fell upon him, a weight so heavy that Harry shrunk down into the blanket cocooned around his shoulders, suddenly concerned about the answer he might be receiving.

“A difficult question,” said Voldemort. “Regrets do not remain so once you have accepted them and moved past them. As the decades have worn on, I have found I have less reason to let my past colour my future. My impulsive youth; my rash, violent rise to power. Events that shaped the man I am today, cliche as that may seem.”

“So you don’t have any?”

Voldemort sighed, setting the book down on the side table. “Harry,” he said. “In the course of my life, there has been little that has truly mattered to me. Power, yes. Acknowledgement, another. Most things—servants, wealth, titles—are a means to an end. Were I to revisit this life, I would undoubtedly make different decisions. But that does not imply regret.

“Who I am, who I was; when I distance myself enough from it all, none of it makes much difference. I could remake myself again and again, for there is no one to question me and no one to stay my hand. The sense of self is a fickle, mercurial thing, and after living as many years as I, you will come to understand this.”

Harry chose to ignore the implication that he would be living anywhere near as long. “So you could be Lord Voldemort,” said Harry. “Or you could be Tom Riddle.”

The name that had once wrought anger now incited the faintest hints of amusement. Voldemort inclined his head; one side of his mouth lifted upwards in what might have been the beginnings of a smile. “I suppose I could.”

* * *

Harry took to standing in his bathroom and looking in the mirror.

He kept his sleep shirt on, to cover the pink-silver marks on his chest that would never fade. But the rest of him was visible, reflected. Dark hair, light eyes. Smooth, warm skin. He was alive. He could run his hand down his neck, past the collarbone, over the heart.

Thud, thud, thud. The beats buried deep in his chest, beneath the bone and muscle. Keeping his lungs going, and keeping the Horcrux alive inside of him.

He would always look this way—eternal, _fixed._ Hair that would never gradate, skin that would never crease. His own body would become a coffin in that he could not escape it.

This body would be his final resting place.

Harry was well aware these thoughts were morbid, that he ought to be horrified with what had been done to him, that of all the things that had been taken from him—his family, his future, his allegiance—to lose control over his own person should have been the breaking point.

It wasn’t.

There was that heavy undercurrent of well, this might as well happen. Of all the things he’d had to endure, his appearance really didn’t need to matter so much, did it? People paid exorbitant amounts of money to look this young.

Harry ran a hand through his hair. It was thick, soft like silk. His hair would never be fully manageable, but he’d grown used to it. It was a part of him.

Harry exhaled, and his breath, warm and fresh from the shower he’d just taken, fogged the glass, distorting the image there.

Who was he? It was a question that Voldemort had discussed, a question that Harry now asked when he stood before his bathroom mirror.

People thought of him as Voldemort’s conscience. A stop-gap between the benevolence and the violence. But this was less true now than it had been—the passage of time had mellowed the Dark Lord’s temper.

Harry had experienced pain at Voldemort’s hand, but he had also experienced kindness. More kindness, Harry suspected, than anyone had ever seen before. Except Nagini, whose loss continued to fray around the edges of Harry’s heart, a feeling of emptiness, a phantom fraction of the soul that was not his own. Did Voldemort feel it, too?

The condensation on the mirror had dissipated. Harry’s eyes once again shone with clarity, with the brilliance of endless youth. Harry had seen people die before, from battle, from old age. They said vision was the first to go, when it came to death. Maybe that was what the light dying in someone’s eyes meant.

Harry had never numbed himself to the concept of death. Losses hurt. Losing people _hurt._ And though he had been in a hurry to die, he had never looked forward to the pain. 

Death was not a friend. It was an enemy, but it was an enemy that Harry could co-exist with, if he tried hard enough. If he held himself strong, if he kept his heart open—he could manage.

Because in spite of all the death he had witnessed, all the weight he carried inside of him, Harry would never choose to stop loving people. So he had chosen to grow alongside death, carving out an uncomfortable space next to the idea of it.

Harry understood why people shied away from death, why Voldemort was afraid of it.

It was brutal. It was cruel. It was the release of the soul into the unknown. To accept death was to accept that there were parts of the universe outside of their control, and this was not a concession Voldemort could abide by. The Dark Lord’s ambition was to never feel helpless, to never be undone. Fate was made malleable by his will; a self-made immortal, more deity than man.

Death was made to be conquered, like all else, and placed under Voldemort’s righteous hand.

* * *

When the work day was over, Harry liked to perch on the end of Voldemort’s desk. Feet off the floor, hands pressed on the edge of the wood, shadow cast over half of whatever the Dark Lord was finishing up.

Voldemort didn’t seem to mind. He would, on occasion, look up to check and see if Harry was paying attention, to see if Harry was still there, watching. When Voldemort was done, he would settle a large palm over Harry’s knee, holding down, and then they would depart for the manor.

Once dinner had concluded, they would ensconce themselves in the familiarity of the study room. They rarely took dinner in the actual dining hall—only when there were guests. Otherwise, they took meals in the office, or in the study, or even in the laboratory.

Today, they were in the study again. Work at the Ministry was tranquil, and they were in no hurry to head to bed.

“Your name,” Harry said. “Can you tell me about it?”

Voldemort frowned, brows lowered, and opened his mouth—

“Not that one,” Harry said. “The name you chose for yourself.”

As Harry had expected, Voldemort obliged him with an explanation.

Several fiery, floating letters later, Harry leant forward, arms braced on his elbows. “Flight from death,” Harry said. “That’s the translation.”

Voldemort smiled, a careful motion that fixed his features in place. “I do not believe in death, Harry. Magic creates us, sustains us. It is a matter of will that holds us to this earth, not any higher power.”

“So people die because they’re too weak to seek out the solution to stay?”

“People die because they limit themselves. They fail to improve, to strive for the goals they deem impossibilities. Many branches of magic exist, and I would not be foolish enough to assume I have attempted them all. Solutions to death exist; we need only seek them out.”

“Death was built into the universe,” Harry said. “All things die. Even the universe will die, someday. When the stars implode and the planets burn to ashes. When humans are long gone.”

“I will not be one of them,” Voldemort said. Harry could just make out the strain dancing along the lines of Voldemort’s jaw, the discipline and control that held back the fear. “And neither will you.”

“Ten years,” Harry continued. “I’ve been by your side. And we’ll have ten more years, and ten more after that, and ten more after that. Where do you see us going? What do you see us doing? The world is wide, and time is infinite. Will you be content to stay here in Britain forever, even if we achieve the utopia you’ve imagined?”

Patience was not Voldemort’s best trait. At times, Harry felt Voldemort did not like ruling over Britain much at all.

Shaping a nation was no small task, and even with all the progress they’d made, all they were doing was herding sheep. People would follow where they were led, where they were told to go, where they were penned in. But to keep the people moving properly, the way Voldemort wanted them to, the pen had to contract and contract, limiting their actions, forcing them to comply.

There was no such thing as utopia for everyone. People were too messy, too _human._ People were prone to mistakes, to surrendering to their vices and forgoing their virtues. There was good and bad in the world, but people, real people, only existed in the space between.

“If I grow tired of this place, then we may move somewhere else,” Voldemort conceded. “I make no assumptions of what the future holds.”

“And you’ll call yourself Lord Voldemort forever?”

“Have you grown attached to the name?” Voldemort asked idly, affecting disinterest.

Harry didn’t use it. Not really. Voldemort was not his Lord, and ‘sir’ no longer encompassed the nature of their relationship properly.

“No,” Harry said. “I’m not.”

Voldemort sighed and steepled his fingers, gazing pensively over the tips of them at Harry. His eyes, always burning, ever piercing, ran Harry through like daggers. Even decades of practice at Occlumency would never keep the Dark Lord out. Harry’s mind, his soul, was open to the man seated across from him.

“You wish for me to accept death. To discard the name.”

“I want you to accept being human,” Harry said, voice steady, chin lifted. “You don’t have to deny death in order to master it. If you really want to conquer it, then you can’t—you can’t be _afraid_ of it.” His breath caught in his lungs, held in place, waiting for the response.

“Then what would you call me?” Voldemort murmured. His expression had not changed.

“Any other name you like,” Harry said. “But if you’re asking what I think? Then I’d like to call you Tom.”

Voldemort’s hands fell to settle upon the armrests, his shoulders shifting from their previous repose. An ingrained recoil to the perceived shame of his heritage, his past.

It had been one thing to think of the name as a concept; it was another to think of applying it. Harry was unsurprised that his suggestion had been met with such a reaction.

“I don’t know who you see yourself as,” Harry said. “But some days I look in the mirror and a stranger stares back at me. As people, as _humans,_ we’re mutable. People are capable of great things and terrible things in equal measures—deciding which of those things to do is just as much of a choice as deciding who you want to be.”

“You want me to choose the path of the light,” Voldemort said, disdain shading the words. “The path of righteousness, the path of _good._ You see me as someone you can change.”

Harry shook his head slowly. “Change is part of growth. I won’t make you into someone you’re not. I know who I see you as: a real person, a human one, and that person matters to me just as much as the one you have the potential to become.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think this is the chapter i'm most proud of writing. we have come a long way... can you feel the end approaching?
> 
> if you've been following along with this story since the beginning, or even in the first half, then you'll know that i am both a liar and a buffoon when it comes to estimating the final chapter count of this story.
> 
> THAT BEING SAID, with the point we are currently at, i'm really hoping for that sexy 30 chapters end count, maybe in the 95k range. anyone have any guesses? or am i just being optimistic again lmao.
> 
> also, i try to avoid begging for comments, but if ur reading this, i am once again asking u to leave me a nice comment ✌️✌️ thank u


	28. Nurture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry liked to think he took care of himself. This could not be further from the truth; that bleeding Gryffindor heart only led Harry towards trouble. Foolish man would break his own arm if he thought some unfortunate soul would be better off for it.

“You spend a good deal of time at the Malfoys’.”

Harry glanced up from the book he’d been perusing. His eyes, large and luminous behind his spectacles, blinked. “Yeah? I’ve been helping Astoria out.” Then his forehead wrinkled slightly, his brow lowering, his jaw jutting out in proud defiance. “Is it a problem?”

Voldemort bit back a derisive response. Exasperation tugged at the corner of his mouth, but he maintained a casual air, pretending to focus on the paper he was writing. Harry was visible within the radius of his peripheral vision, and so there was no need to look up.

“It is not,” Voldemort said. “I only wish to remind you of our prior agreement.”

Resistance melted into an expression of minor puzzlement. “What agreement?”

“That you would not overwork yourself.”

The defiance rushed back in as Harry sat up, eyes alight. “I’m not!”

Harry’s stubbornness could rival all of Britain, certainly. “I doubt you would notice if you were,” Voldemort said. “You ignore your limits.”

“I’m not,” Harry repeated, glaring. “Sometimes I just go over to visit and watch Scorpius while Astoria works on her Mastery. I know that I need to take breaks, okay?”

Harry liked to think he took care of himself. This could not be further from the truth; that bleeding Gryffindor heart only led Harry towards trouble. Foolish man would break his own arm if he thought some unfortunate soul would be better off for it.

Voldemort glared back, unfazed by Harry’s disgruntlement. “If you did not conduct yourself like a petulant child, then I would have no need to treat you like one.”

“You’re such a hypocrite, Tom,” said Harry. Then he rolled his eyes. Which, honestly, only proved the point about his childishness. “How about this: next time I go to visit, you can come with me.”

Harry had been using that name lately. _Tom._ Tentatively at first, after their conversation, then with increasing regularity—but only ever in private. It was a name that Voldemort had not identified with in many, many decades. It felt new, different in a way that it never had before.

Perhaps he had dissociated the name from its origin. Perhaps he felt this way because this was Harry. Harry did seem to use it as a term of endearment rather than as a title.

The implication of that was flattering, though Voldemort had yet to decide whether he would halt this behaviour or not.

“And why would I need to go with you?” Voldemort asked.

“So you can see for yourself what it’s like to socialize like a normal person,” Harry said, his voice bright like a morning songbird’s.

“Your insolence is not a virtue,” Voldemort told him pointedly.

“But it certainly works,” Harry said. His gracious smile barely masked the troublesome imp that lived behind it.

“It does not work.”

“No, no, I get it. You don’t like children. Bad for your public image as a brooding immortal.” Harry shrugged his shoulders, flopping back in his armchair and dropping his eyes to the book in his hands. 

That did not deserve a response, and so Voldemort returned to his writing, determined to ignore the nuisance on the other side of the room. He would not cave to Harry’s ridiculous demands because of some immature taunting. It would not work.

* * *

“What a lovely surprise!” Astoria stepped away from the entrance, eyes wide. “My Lord, I was not aware you would be visiting with Harry today. Should I call my husband?”

“No need,” Voldemort said. Just behind him, he could sense Harry vibrating with amusement. “This is a _social_ call,” he added, pleasant, pressing charm into the words.

“Ah, then allow me to welcome you into our home,” Astoria said, sweeping into a curtsey. “Scorpius is with his tutor at the moment, but he will be along shortly if you would like to see him?”

Her skin, once olive, was pale, waxen. Her eyes were sunken, not heavily so, but faintly purpled underneath all the same. There were strands of silver in her brown hair. How long had it been since he had laid eyes on her? He could not recall. Most of what he knew of her progress, or lack thereof, was courtesy of Harry.

She was studying for a Mastery in Ancient Runes. She enjoyed writing in the backyard, where the gardens resided. She put her hair up when she was frustrated, regardless of what she was doing. These were the things that Harry had told him, things he would not have thought to learn otherwise.

“That would be wonderful.” Voldemort gestured for Harry to precede him into the entrance hall, where they handed off their cloaks to the tiny House-Elf positioned by the coat rack.

Astoria led them down the hall into the sitting room. There were two armchairs facing a singular chair on the left side of the room. One of the chairs must have been freshly added—the sign of a diligent House-Elf.

This particular sitting room was smaller than the one at Malfoy Manor. Less grandiose; more comfortable. The pattern of the walls and the carpets were plain, and there was a distinct lack of old heirlooms and useless trinkets. The mantle above the fireplace was home to moving photographs that documented Scorpius’ progress from infanthood to present day.

“Tea?” Astoria asked.

“Yes, please,” Harry said.

Astoria turned her hostess smile to Voldemort. “And you, my Lord?”

“Tea is fine.” Voldemort walked over to one of the chairs on the right side and settled into it. Harry followed behind, matching the motion.

A tea tray popped into existence on the glass table that sat between Voldemort and Astoria. Porcelain resting upon shining silver.

Astoria waved her hand, causing the pot to rise and pour out three cups of tea. There were pastries on the tray as well. Harry had mentioned that Astoria liked to bake.

“Treacle,” Harry said happily, leaning forward to snatch a tart.

Voldemort took one as well, so as not to be impolite.

“Why don’t you tell us about how your research is going?” Harry asked.

Astoria’s cheerful expression waned, giving way to hesitation. “Oh, you don’t want me to bore you with that—”

“It’s fascinating,” Harry said firmly. “And I think we’d love to hear about it.”

Astoria did not glance in Voldemort’s direction, but her body language did relax somewhat at Harry’s reassurance. “If you insist. Just to pass the time, but feel free to interrupt me.”

* * *

Scorpius Malfoy was an interesting child. He possessed his father’s features: blonde hair, grey eyes. But he smiled often, mostly at his mother, and also at Harry, who he must have taken a liking to. He did not pitch fits or engage in dramatics. He was quiet, well-spoken, and he behaved in the presence of others.

Once the boy had acclimated to the guest his mother introduced only as 'our Lord', the questions had begun. Polite enquiries, but enquiries nonetheless. 

Next year, the boy would be at Hogwarts. His curiosity was understandable; he had yet to socialize with many children his own age, and here was the man that his parents said ruled their nation. There could be no better person to ask.

Scorpius also spoke highly of his father. The idolization was clear, and it mimicked the relationship Draco Malfoy had with Lucius. A handsome, powerful father who was unversed in the art of child-rearing. A figure to admire and aspire to.

Only this boy, affecting the wisdom of children much older than ten-nearly-eleven, was tempered with the knowledge that his mother was not well. He clung to his mother like a damp sea creature, soaked up her warmth and care like a sponge. 

Had Scorpius been told of the future, of what his mother’s illness could entail?

Though practiced in offering condolences to adults, Voldemort was unsure how to offer the same comfort to a child. What was it like for the boy, to see his mother’s health in sharp decline? Was he angry, upset?

Harry had the boy settled on his lap. The two of them were flipping through a large book on Quidditch while Harry went over his favourite plays.

“Did you play Quidditch at Hogwarts, Mr. Harry?” Scorpius asked.

“No,” Harry admitted. “I never did. But I did play games for fun, sometimes. My best friend played Keeper for Gryffindor.”

Scorpius pondered this, then looked up, pale eyes settling upon Voldemort. “And you, sir?”

“I did not,” Voldemort confirmed. “I had no inclination towards Quidditch. I kept my focus on my academic pursuits.”

The boy’s pointed face pinched up in thought. He shut the book on Quidditch and placed it aside. “I like both,” Scorpius decided. “But I don’t like reading as much as flying.”

“There’s a balance to both that’s necessary,” Voldemort said. “You must build strength in your body and in your mind.”

“That’s what father says,” Scorpius observed. “He used to play Seeker for Slytherin. And mother played as Chaser. That’s how they met,” he added, looking at Voldemort again.

“Draco was a better Captain than he was Seeker,” Astoria said, sounding fond. 

Scorpius scrambled off the armchair. “I can show you my broom,” he said, cautious excitement evident in his restless shifting from foot to foot. “Do you want to see?”

It was only when the child blinked, grey eyes wide, that Voldemort realized who the recipient of the question had been.

“It’s alright,” Astoria said quickly. “Our Lord is a very busy man, Scorpius. He likely needs to return to work soon.”

“Nonsense.” Voldemort stood, waved her concern aside, watched the happiness that stole over the child’s face at being accepted. “Lead the way, Scorpius.”

* * *

The rest of the afternoon passed in a bearable way. Harry, however, was _unbearably_ pleased by it all, and there was a bounce in his step when they returned to the manor.

“Did you have fun?” Harry asked.

“It was a house call.”

“That’s not a no,” Harry decided.

Voldemort removed his cloak and passed it off to the waiting House-Elf. “The Malfoys have been loyal to me for generations. I will continue my work on a cure for Astoria’s blood malediction.”

“I know you will,” said Harry.

They moved into the main hall and, by unspoken agreement, proceeded to the study. Harry was walking backwards, he was so intent upon their conversation.

“What did you think of Scorpius? He’s older than when you last saw him.”

“A bright child. A bright future lies ahead of him,” Voldemort said.

Harry sombered, his hands slipping into his pockets. A habitual motion of melancholy that signalled deeper thoughts.

“He’s been very strong,” Harry said. “I don’t know if I could have been, if it were me in his place. We talk about kids growing older physically, but we don’t talk about growth emotionally. Not nearly enough, anyways. Scorpius acts a lot older than he needs to be. Than he should have to be.”

“He will come through it,” Voldemort said. “And even so, he will be taken care of. Should Astoria pass, I will extend an offer of assistance to the family.”

Harry smiled, a half-smile that did not reach his eyes. “I appreciate what you mean by saying that.”

They passed the threshold that led into the study. Harry stepped around his usual chair, walking to where his personal Pensieve was stored. Voldemort watched, curious to see if memories from today would be deemed worth saving or not.

The bowl remained as pristine as its first day, gleaming and polished to a beautiful shine. Harry ran a finger around the edge and set it upon the side table.

“I never got to say goodbye to my mum,” Harry said. “If we don’t find a cure, then Scorpius will have to say goodbye to his. I don’t know if I envy him. Goodbyes are hard.”

With that said, silence fell. Harry continued to watch his Pensieve, expression distant, and Voldemort was unsure how to contribute to the conversation. If he had ever mourned his own mother as a child, those memories were long forgotten. They would never be placed into a Pensieve for viewing, would never be revisited.

Voldemort used his own Pensieve for memories of triumph, of victory. To relive his successes and celebrate his achievements. Now, however, his Pensieve sat mostly unused, save for the times where he wished to review a recent Ministry meeting or Wizengamot gathering for clarity. The past was the past, and he found less pleasure in it than he once had.

“Time keeps rolling on,” Harry said. “And every single day I feel like I’m missing something.”

“What could you possibly be missing?” Voldemort asked, equal parts offended and curious.

Harry shrugged, glancing over his shoulder at where Voldemort was seated. “That’s the thing, Tom. I don’t know what it is.”

“Is it the monotony?” Voldemort pressed. “We could go abroad this summer, if you wished.”

Harry shook his head. “It’s not that. But I wouldn’t mind that in the future. Just not right now, because Astoria still needs our help.”

“If we do not make progress soon,” Voldemort said carefully, “it is unlikely she will live past the length of her son’s Hogwarts education.” It was a harsh truth to deliver, but it had to be done.

Harry’s shoulders slackened, his head slumping down. Then he turned back to the Pensieve and drew his wand, pressing the wand tip to his forehead.

Slowly, Harry retrieved a wispy strand of silver from his mind. The process was measured, the gesture gentle. Once the curl of silver was free, he deposited it into the bowl, where it spilled into the whirlpool of shimmering liquid.

Harry would always want to save people; this desire was a part of Harry Potter as much as Voldemort’s soul was.

Harry would always want to save people, and he would blame himself if he failed.

* * *

“Get dressed. Warm clothing, Muggle style. We will depart in fifteen minutes.”

Voldemort did not wait for Harry’s blearly agreement before he left the room. Harry would rise and follow eventually, likely before ten minutes were up. Punctuality was one of Harry’s stronger traits, even if said trait was the result of general anxiety rather than a genuine inclination to timeliness.

True to expectations, Harry arrived in the entrance hall eleven minutes later, fully dressed in a lumpy sweater, scarf, and Muggle coat. None of the colours complimented.

The scarf was a brilliant emerald green, a gift from Narcissa. The coat was a summery brown, more suited to fall than winter, and the sweater beneath was an atrocious, obnoxious shade of lavender. His boots, at least, were black.

“Where are we going?” Harry asked. He adjusted his glasses on his face and ruffled a hand through his sleep-mussed hair. There was a faint line on his face from how he’d slept on his pillowcase.

“You will see.” Voldemort offered an arm in invitation.

Harry took it. His arm was cold, body heat having not yet sunk through the many layers he was wearing.

“Hold tight,” Voldemort warned. “This will be a longer journey than usual.”

Harry jerked his head, tightening his grip. “Where—?”

Voldemort turned on the spot, cutting Harry off. He could have prepared a Portkey, but for this he prefered to leave no magical evidence behind.

The familiar squeeze of Apparition overtook them, compressing their physical forms into the magical dimension reserved for travel. The pressure piled on with each passing second, releasing only when the tension had passed into the uncomfortable side of unbearable.

Harry heaved a gasp as they landed, coughing wildly, jerking away so he could brace his hands on his knees.

“I did warn you,” Voldemort said.

Harry scowled, rubbed at watering eyes beneath his glasses, panting as he straightened. “I would have done just fine if you hadn’t Apparated me mid-sentence, you prat.”

Then Harry’s eyes focused on their surroundings. Trees and grassy fields. They were standing on a well-worn path aside a concrete road. “Where are we?” he asked again. “And you better answer me this time.”

“Come this way,” Voldemort said, “and you will recognize the area.” He withdrew his wand and cast two spells in quick succession; the crack of eggs and the fluid feel of invisibility washed over their bodies.

Harry rolled his shoulders, casting a hesitant look in Voldemort’s direction. But he nodded in acceptance anyways.

They stepped down the road. One of the large houses awaited them. In a neighbourhood like this one, the houses were spaced far apart, leaving plenty of room in between for structures like gardens and sheds and, in one case, a trampoline for children.

The particular house they were visiting was surrounded by beautiful greenery. The front yard was filled with colourful flowers, and there was a proud apple tree planted firmly on the left side, a child’s swing hanging from one of the tree’s large branches.

Harry’s eyes wandered over the front of the house, his breath catching. “This is Ron and Hermione’s house,” he said, and he turned an accusing gaze to where Voldemort was standing.

“It is. Do you wish to leave?”

Harry swallowed. He had said many times that he did not wish to be reminded too much of his past, that it was painful to think of and even worse to witness.

But now that they were here, Voldemort knew the temptation to look, to _see,_ would win out.

* * *

Harry’s friends had a son.

They had a young boy who was approximately the same age as Scorpius Malfoy. Dark brown curls and a wide smile, tan skin with freckles smattered across the cheeks and the bridge of the nose. The boy ran on sturdy legs and laughed wildly when his father picked him up, swinging him around.

Harry had cried upon seeing the child.

He had cried harder when Granger addressed the child as ‘Harry’.

Admittedly, Voldemort had not checked for the name of the child before deciding to bring Harry here. So the name had come as a surprise to them both. But Harry’s reaction was distressing to witness.

The three family members here were happy, healthy, left untouched as had been promised—surely this sight was more reassuring than upsetting?

Voldemort hovered a distance away, undecided on if his presence would be welcome or not, listening as Harry’s sobs faded to hiccups and sniffles.

When the little family went back into the house, Voldemort felt it appropriate to step to Harry’s side. Harry was kneeling on the grass, eyes fixed distantly on the treehouse that his friends must have built for their child.

“Would you like their memories returned?” he asked, gazing down at Harry’s shrunken form. It was not the first time he had asked, but in this moment he felt the option ought to be reasserted.

Harry stood up, chest heaving, and looked away from the treehouse. “No. Thank you, though.”

“The name of the child upsets you.”

“No,” Harry said. Then he laughed, the noise of it warped and watery. “It doesn’t.”

Voldemort took Harry by the arm, tentative, and pulled him closer. Harry acquiesced, settling against him, head tilted to rest on his shoulder. Harry was warm, bundled as he was, and his body heat pressed through the layers of fabric and into Voldemort’s side.

Inside the house, lights flickered on in one of the rooms. Then Granger pulled the curtains open, revealing a cozy dining room complete with a colourful, misshapen clay centerpiece. The clay sculpture looked like a large cat curled up on its side.

“They still remember me,” Harry said. “They named their son after me.” Then his face contorted, slackening. “Even with all their memories wiped?” he asked, his voice flooding with panic.

“Relax,” Voldemort commanded. Through their delicate connection, he could perceive the gist of Harry’s thoughts. “Their memories have not changed; they have not broken through the Obliviation you cast. I examined their minds myself, and there is no reason to believe there have been any changes.”

“But Hermione’s really smart,” Harry said. The sentence cracked right down the middle; another breakdown held at bay. “She might have figured it out. If anyone could, it would be her—”

“If that is the case, then I will recast the spells myself.”

Harry shuddered, the motion an act of violence, a full body tremble that Voldemort felt against his chest and arm.

“They’re happy here,” Harry said, sounding sad. “I don’t want to ruin it.”

“You would not.” Voldemort touched a hand to the nape of Harry’s neck, fingers digging past the collar of the brown coat to press against the warm skin there, holding Harry in place.

Harry twitched, leaning into the hand, to the steadiness of comfort. They stood silent for a few more minutes, watching as Weasley set the table with magic while the child beamed at the dramatic, dancing display of cutlery.

They were older, Granger and Weasley. Voldemort’s memories of their youthful visages blurred around the edges, the image made more surreal by the subtle changes he had exacted upon them. And beyond that, their current appearance played a sharp contrast to Harry, who maintained the face and body of a young man in his mid-twenties.

“Okay,” Harry said. “We should go now. Thank you for taking me here.”

“Is there anything else you would like for them? Material items could be provided easily.”

“No.”

“Then we may depart, if you are ready.”

Harry pulled away, moving towards the window. He stopped a short step away from the glass, his hand reaching to rest upon the windowsill.

“Goodbye Ron,” he said. “Goodbye Hermione.” His green eyes touched upon each beloved figure in turn, and then came to rest upon the child.

His throat bobbed, and he said, voice a mere whisper, “Goodbye Harry.”

This time Voldemort gathered Harry up in his arms, only pausing to check the hold was secure before they Disapparated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter we'll be seeing remus lupin again, i think.


	29. Value

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remus Lupin stood, turning. Time had never been kind to Remus, but this fact was clearer now as they gazed upon each other. Harry knew how his own face, fixed and youthful, so like his father but also not, could hurt to look at.

Work at the Ministry grew busy. This was what Harry had assumed, because Tom was working more than usual, and that meant many of his tasks as Minister were being handed off to Harry.

Harry didn’t mind. These were all tasks he knew how to do, either from watching Tom, or from reviewing the process himself.

The surprise came much later, when Harry was informed he had a guest waiting for him in his office.

Harry’s office had come to pass as a status symbol rather than out of any practical need for the room. Tom liked Harry nearby whenever he was at the Ministry, and so Harry had at first used his office for work-related meetings and storage for his filed paperwork.

Over time, however, the room had filled itself with things. Books and trinkets, gifts from friends and coworkers. Tom’s magpie tendency never waned; he had taken to presenting Harry with all manner of interesting rarities whenever he came across them.

Harry kept those items aside from the rest, displayed in a row directly on his desk. His favourite item, however, was the cloak pin with the Potter family crest that hovered, suspended, above a small crystal dais.

Following the death of his parents, the Potter family assets had been seized by the Ministry.

Harry had inherited it all, but by then he’d been too firmly entrenched in the Order, too well known by Voldemort and his associates. Everything had been _legally_ his—the properties, the gold, the heirlooms—but he’d had no way to claim it.

Voldemort had rectified that matter very quickly once he’d been assured of Harry’s loyalty. All that had once belonged to James and Lily was now his.

Potter Cottage had been emptied of sentimental items and placed under layers of preservation charms. Harry kept everything that mattered to him either at home or in his office at the Ministry. He had no desire to revisit his childhood home anymore.

The community of Godric’s Hollow was now fully restored and populated with families; it was no longer the place Harry had grown up in, no longer the place he had stood, blood-smeared and grieving, fresh scar on his forehead marking him for death. It wasn’t the same, it never would be, and therefore it was no longer a place he wished to visit.

Harry pushed open his office door and was greeted with a head of grey hair and shabby robes.

“Remus?”

Remus Lupin stood, turning. Time had never been kind to Remus, but this fact was clearer now as they gazed upon each other. Harry knew how his own face, fixed and youthful, so like his father but also not, could hurt to look at.

Remus was withering, pale and shrunken in on himself. Harry felt a pang of guilt, sharp and tangy in the back of his throat, and wished he’d had the courage to reach out sooner. He had avoided thinking of that part of his past, because it was a part of him that no longer existed in the same form.

The man who had saved Remus Lupin had grown into the Dark Lord’s right hand. Remus had tried to save him, only Harry had saved Remus instead. This was the guilt they carried, the burden of shame and regret that had forced them apart for so many years. They had betrayed their cause for each other, and for Harry, this had always felt unforgivable to the point of physical pain.

“Harry,” said Remus, quiet and tender, the greeting so achingly familiar that Harry stepped forward and enveloped the man in a hug.

They held each other for a moment, tethered in comfort, and then Remus pulled away to place both hands on either side of Harry’s face, thumbs stroking the cheekbones.

“I haven’t aged a day,” Harry said, rueful.

“Potter family genes, as James would have said.” Remus smiled, but the expression crumbled away just as quickly. 

The hands pulled away. Harry missed the feel of them, calloused and papery and warm.

“It’s nice to see you,” Harry said honestly. “Have a seat.”

They sat. Harry eyed the clutter of his desk, suddenly embarrassed by all of it. Remus seemed equally ill at ease as he looked down at his lap.

“It took me longer than it should have to come here,” Remus said. “So I’m sorry for that.”

“You don’t have to be,” Harry told him. “I understand. It’s not… it’s not easy to reconnect with the past.”

“Still,” said Remus. “I feel like I failed you, Harry.” His gaze swept the room, mouth falling into a frown. “After Sirius passed, I told myself that I would always be there for you. That I would keep you safe no matter what the prophecy said.”

“And you were,” Harry said. “You were there for me.”

“Except for when it mattered.”

Harry exhaled, counted three breaths in a row. “It’s not your fault. None of what happened to me was your fault, and I don’t blame you for trying to save me. I’ve... accepted my life and made peace with it. This is who I am now. I work at the Ministry, and I do what I can.”

“Harry—”

“No, listen,” Harry insisted. “You can’t live like this, feeling like this. I know you can’t. The past is gone, Remus. There’s nothing we can do to change it.”

Remus sat back, stiffening. “You’ve given up.”

Though he knew the words weren’t true, Harry couldn’t help his flinch. “I haven’t,” Harry said. “I never give up. Not on you, not on myself. Not on other people. But the only thing I can change is the future. Lingering on the past hurts more than it helps.”

“You’re going to live forever,” Remus said. “Immortal like—like the Dark Lord.”

Maybe he would, but he didn’t want to confirm any of it. The uncertainty was something he had to deal with every day when he met Tom’s eyes. He didn’t need to see it in Remus’, too.

“It’s what he wants,” Harry said instead. In this Ministry, under this reign, the Dark Lord’s will was immutable. This was the image that needed to persist in order for Remus to remain safe.

Remus deflated. “I don’t know what to do with myself,” he admitted. “It feels wrong to just… let all of this happen. There are more creature rights in place. We never had those while I was at Hogwarts.”

Harry knew. He’d worked on many of the additional laws himself. Creature rights had always been on Voldemort’s agenda in exchange for assistance in apprehending members of the Order. Ever since Harry had witnessed the Order’s dissolution, leaps and bounds of progress had been made on that front.

“We’re doing the best we can,” Harry said. “To help people.”

“But not Muggleborns.”

Harry chewed on the inside of his cheek, deliberating. “It’s better than it once was,” Harry said. “And I have hope it’ll keep getting better.” With enough time, anything was possible. Changing the Dark Lord’s mind was one thing. Changing the mind of an entire nation was another. But Harry had faith he could steer their magical world to where it needed to be.

“I suppose that’s all any of us can ask for,” Remus said softly. “You do look well, Harry. I’m glad. But if you do need anything, if there’s anything I can do…” The word trailed off, the first sign of hopefulness since their conversation had begun flickering across Remus’ face.

“This might be some years too late for me to say,” Harry said, pacing his words with deliberate care, “but I’m old enough to look after myself. I don’t need someone to parent me anymore. What I want, what I really need right now, is a friend.”

“A friend,” Remus repeated. “I can do that.” Then he shifted, straightening. “So Harry, what can I do for you as a friend?”

Harry didn’t actually have anything at the moment. When he wasn’t swamped with work, all his spare time went into worrying over Astoria and Tom. But he didn’t want to turn Remus away right now, not when they’d only just reconciled. There had to be something he could offer.

On his desk, the Potter family crest spun a slow rotation. Harry eyed the motion, felt the tug of an idea in his mind.

“There is something you can do for me,” Harry said, realizing, his sentence solidifying further as he spoke. “Something that I think I’ve been waiting to do for a while.”

* * *

At the end of the day, Harry met Tom in his office. It was a Thursday, which was usually the worst day for paperwork, and so Harry was unsurprised to see a stack of such things on Tom’s paper tray. Tom was occupied when Harry came in, and so Harry settled into one of the empty chairs to wait.

There was no more extra desk here in this room. Sometimes Harry missed the closeness of it, of just the two of them scribbling away at their respective work stations. But he liked the privacy of his own office as well, and given they spent so much time together, the space was probably a good thing.

“I’m giving Potter Cottage to Remus,” Harry said, once he noted the clock was well past the hour when Tom should have wrapped up.

That got Tom’s attention, as Harry had known it would. “Your family home?” Tom asked.

“It’s not as though I’m using it.”

Tom frowned, a crease marring his forehead. “Did you want to?”

It was hard to explain why he didn’t want to, and even harder to explain it to Tom, who still failed to grasp most of the emotional intricacies that Harry waded through on a regular basis.

“No,” said Harry. “I want the house to go to someone who’ll appreciate it, and that person is Remus.”

“If the house has value to you,” Tom said, setting his quill aside, “we can see about re-furnishing it.”

“Tom,” said Harry, exasperated. “I don’t want or need the house. I’m perfectly fine with the way things are.”

Tom was still frowning, so Harry got up and went to hop on top of the side of the desk. This particular side of the desk had once been home to a neat pile of various research manuscripts. Harry had made a habit of moving them around whenever he came into Tom’s office, much to Tom’s annoyance.

But nowadays, that space was conspicuously clear of clutter. Harry was sure that, were he to press for a reason, Tom would say it was because he kept messing the spot up.

“Are you done yet?” Harry asked, when it became clear Tom was not about to respond.

“No,” Tom said. He sounded grumpy now, which Harry took to mean he was annoyed at having emotions.

“That’s okay.” Harry swung his legs out and rotated his ankles. “I can wait as long as it takes.”

* * *

Late afternoons began to stretch into late nights. Harry ended up having to hire an assistant—even though, technically, he was already the Minister’s assistant. Not to mention Barty was the Undersecretary with his own junior assistant. The chain of command had been bent sideways because of Harry’s presence, and Tom had assigned Harry the label of ‘Advisor to the Minister of Magic’ to provide Harry with an official role in the eyes of the people.

Harry figured the addition of another person could hardly make things any _more_ confusing.

People already looked to him as the Minister’s second, outclassed by Barty only in terms of encyclopedic knowledge on the way their nation worked. Harry had no official powers and responsibilities in the Ministry, but the sway he held over them all was surpassed only by the Dark Lord. It was a heady feeling to have so much responsibility, but over the years Harry had grown into it.

With a new assistant, Harry was able to manage all of his new workload and still have time leftover for other things. Tom, however, was sighted with less and less frequency at the Ministry. In fact, Harry was beginning to suspect that Tom only appeared in his office at five sharp because he knew Harry was expecting him to be there.

They would land back in the manor, and then Tom would mutter some excuse or another, saying he would return for dinner before stalking off in the direction of his home office.

Aside from the annoying hypocrisy of the situation, Harry was growing concerned.

After some time of this pattern, Harry decided the best way to sort it was a direct confrontation. Tom never took well to Harry’s attempt at subtleties—he typically ignored them, and then went out of his way to make a big show of ignoring them. As though only Slytherins were capable of being subtle, Harry thought derisively.

So when they landed in the entrance hall one evening, Harry spun around, placing himself in Tom’s way. “Who’s overworking themselves now?” Harry demanded, seizing the sleeve of Tom’s robes to hold him in place.

“No one,” Tom said smoothly, jerking his arm away. “I am well aware of my limits, and I am perfectly capable of managing my time.”

“I hardly see you,” Harry said.

Tom faltered, but the doubt slid away quickly, replaced by the pleasant, condescending look from before. “You see me more than anyone else does,” Tom said. “I assure you it’s not a competition.”

Irritation flared up in Harry’s chest. “That’s not my point. You’re a bloody hypocrite, that’s what my point is. You need to rest just as much as anyone else does.”

Tom’s lip curled as he took a step forward, staring down. “I know what’s best, Harry. You forget yourself by questioning me. My health is fine, your concerns are noted, and I will see you at dinner.”

“Delivering statements in shorter sentences doesn’t make me any more prone to listening to them,” Harry said.

Tom sighed and pressed a hand to Harry’s face, cupping his cheek. “I promise that once I’m finished with my current project, things will return to normal. Does this reassure you?”

It was as good of a concession as any, though Harry was suspicious Tom wouldn’t keep to this agreement. “How long?” Harry pressed, undeterred. The promise would mean little if Tom planned to continue this trainwreck lifestyle for the next few months.

To his surprise, Tom’s eyes softened. “Not long, I should think.” His hand slid down to clasp Harry’s shoulder, the gesture gentle, comforting. “I’m very hopeful that it will be done soon.”

Harry had to remember to take a breath. “Okay,” he said.

“So you believe me?” Tom asked, his voice so low that it was hypnotic.

“I guess.” Harry squirmed a bit, suddenly uneasy. “I guess I do. But if you start skipping meals and things then I’m going to bring this up again.”

Tom smiled. “I would expect nothing less.”

Harry felt a press of fondness in those words, a lulling affection buried between the pauses. His heart swelled oddly in his chest, thumping. “Okay,” Harry repeats. “Good. Glad we’ve got that sorted.”

Tom pulled his hand away, and Harry exhaled a rush of air all at once. “I will see you at dinner,” Tom said. He left.

Harry rubbed at his elbow rather than his shoulder, because rubbing at his shoulder would have been too obvious. The large manor felt emptier without Tom’s presence close to him. Maybe a walk before dinner would help him shake the sensation of oddness.

* * *

Some weeks after that, Tom barged into his office.

“Tom?” Harry said, immediately alarmed. “What is it? Is something wrong?”

Then he caught sight of Tom’s face properly. _Triumph._ His eyes blazing with splendour, a high flush of colour tainting his cheeks.

If Harry had to name a sin, Tom Riddle would be the sin of pride many, many times over. Slytherins were the ambitious sort, but Tom put them all to shame—for his goals were lofty and his achievements were numerous, and he balked in the face of nothing, not even death.

When Tom succeeded, he was glory personified.

“I’ve done it,” Tom said. “I’ve cured her.”

Harry’s mouth dropped open before the statement could even register.

“You—” Harry said. Words failed him. Nothing he could think of seemed good enough.

“She’s at St. Mungo’s now,” Tom continued, “being monitored. But all the initial checks have passed, and they believe she’ll make a full recovery.”

“This is what you’ve been working on,” Harry said, no small amount of awe present in his voice.

Tom’s smile stretched smugly across his lips, and Harry was no longer mad, no, he was overjoyed at the sight of it.

“You did it,” Harry said, leaping up and stumbling around his desk to meet Tom at the door. “You did it!”

He did not initiate a hug so much as practically tackle Tom with his entire body. They fell awkwardly against the door with a crash as Tom coughed out all his air over the top of Harry’s head.

Harry could tell that he was crying, that he was soaking Tom’s fancy shirt and robes with his snot and tears, but all of that was so distant that it barely registered. Tom’s arm settled around his upper back, pulling tight. Tom’s nose was pressed to the side of his head.

“You saved her,” Harry mumbled into the fabric. “Thank you.”

Tom’s chest expanded underneath Harry’s face, a dragging inhale, and then Tom said, “You’re welcome,” in a low rumble. The pride was still there, but it was less distinct, more blurred by the presence of other emotions.

Harry thought of how Voldemort had taken everything from him. His life, his parents, his friends. His blood and his loyalty sold as bargaining tools. His innocence left to burn in a ruined white room.

And though Harry would never have love or family in the traditional sense, he had some of what Tom had given back to him. He had Astoria and Scorpius. He had Remus. He had this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have zero energy for a proper a/n, but the next chapter is gonna be more feelies on wheelies


	30. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hogwarts had not changed much. There were the same towers, the same forest grounds, the same Quidditch pitch. Harry had fond memories of his Hogwarts years, fondness in spite of the torturous political climate that had existed outside the walls. 
> 
> Filius Flitwick was at the entrance, smiling as the gates before him parted. “Harry Potter, as I live and breathe. It is good to see you again.”

That September, Scorpius began his first year at Hogwarts. He was Sorted into Slytherin, to the delight of both his father and the Dark Lord. Harry found the situation amusing all the way up until Scorpius’ Defense professor was eaten by a Chimera over the winter holidays.

“There is no one in all of Britain who is stupid enough to take this position,” Harry said. “At best, it’s a nine month inconvenience. At worst, it’s a glorified death sentence. Can’t you just remove the curse? I doubt it’ll do much to change public opinion, but if I can _get it in writing,_ maybe I can convince _someone_ to take the job.”

Tom twirled his wand in hand, not meeting Harry’s gaze. “The only way to remove the curse is for the requirements to be fulfilled.”

Harry glowered. “Where am I supposed to find someone whose credentials fulfill your moronic curse requirements? Are _you_ going to go and teach Defense for a year?”

“Hmm.” Tom sat up, eyes alight, and Harry knew that he was about to hear a terrible idea. “Why don’t you teach the class?”

“What? Me?” Harry stared. “I’m your assistant.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I am not attempting to get rid of you,” Tom said. “I have full faith that you will fulfill the curse’s requirements. It is the simplest solution, Harry. I would hardly set you up for failure, now would I?”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “I dunno, would you?”

“Your lack of faith wounds me.”

“I don’t know how to teach a classroom,” Harry said.

Tom had gone back to looking at his book, signalling that he was now set on his awful decision. “You’ve taught before, haven’t you? In the past.”

In the past. Harry shrugged, uncomfortable. “A bit. But that was years ago. I’m hardly as skilled as I once was.”

“Nonsense. You’ll do it,” Tom said with finality. “I have every reason to believe you will succeed.”

“You think I can teach a Defense class to the ridiculously exacting standards you hold for yourself,” Harry said. “When I end up in St. Mungo’s, I am going to tattoo the words ‘I told you so’ on your left arm.”

Tom only hummed in response, which Harry took to mean his threat was effective.

“Fine,” Harry said. “I’ll teach. I’ll fill in for the rest of this year, and then I’ll do the next year. _One year,_ and then the curse better be done with or else I’m going to tell them _you’re_ going to teach.”

* * *

“I hear you’re finally moving out of this place,” said Theodore.

Harry stood up and cast a quick glance to his desk, which was mostly cleared. He hadn’t gone out of his way to keep his departure a secret, but he hadn’t advertised it either. “News travels?”

“It does.” Theodore stepped closer, placing a hand on the empty surface of the desk.

“It’s only for a year, really,” Harry said, unsure why he felt the need to defend himself. “Then I’ll be back.”

“You do good work here,” Theodore said. “You always have. But do you really think you’ll be back?”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked, flustered. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“You’re not a politician, Harry.” Theodore shook his head, his mouth settling into a slant of disapproval. “You work best with people who don’t have hidden agendas whenever they talk to you. Can you honestly tell me you don’t think you’ll enjoy working at Hogwarts more than the Ministry?” 

It was hard to imagine himself anywhere other than here, by the Dark Lord’s side. “I don’t know.”

“Make the choice that’s right for you,” Theodore advised. “It’s not wrong to want something for yourself.”

At Hogwarts, the only thing Harry had really wanted to do was play Quidditch. After that, his life had been about defeating the Dark Lord. He’d taught people in the Order to duel, but that wasn’t the same as overseeing a classroom of students, and it certainly wasn’t the same as having an aspiration to be a professor.

“I’ll do my best,” Harry said lightly. Then, flashing a smile, he added, “We’ll have to see if I survive the year before we start celebrating.”

“I’m sure you will,” Theodore said, tone still serious. “If anyone could ever be the Dark Lord’s equal, Harry, it would be you.”

* * *

The dying winter sun was high in the sky when Harry appeared on the outskirts of the Hogwarts grounds. He had a leather satchel with him, the insides expanded and filled with the essentials. There was a room waiting in the castle that would soon be his.

Hogwarts had not changed much. There were the same towers, the same forest grounds, the same Quidditch pitch. Harry had fond memories of his Hogwarts years, fondness in spite of the torturous political climate that had existed outside the walls.

Filius Flitwick was at the entrance, smiling as the gates before him parted. “Harry Potter, as I live and breathe. It is good to see you again.”

As Harry passed through into Hogwarts, he felt the wards pass over him, welcoming him.

Harry stepped forward and shook hands with his old Charms professor. “It’s good to be back, sir.”

“Please, call me Filius. We are to be colleagues now, aren’t we?”

“Filius,” Harry said. “I’m happy to be here. Almost feels like coming home.”

“Hogwarts is always a home to those who need one,” Filius said, solemn. “And it can be home for you again, if you wish.”

Harry eyed Gryffindor Tower for a long, long moment, wondering how much of its contents had changed since he had graduated. 

Then he thought of Potter Cottage, which had been remodelled, its interior familiar yet not, now home to Remus Lupin. He thought of how Astoria Malfoy had gone out of her way to build a _home,_ not a manor. 

And lastly, he thought of where he and Tom lived together. He thought of their two armchairs by the fireplace in the study, of the bedroom which he had grown into liking. He thought of Tom.

“Thank you,” Harry said, trying to think on how to phrase it delicately. “But I won’t be here permanently, and I don’t plan to be.”

Filius met his gaze for a second, searching, and said, “I see. If that ever changes, please do let me know. We would love to have you.”

* * *

Harry taught classes during the day, and he would Floo back to the manor for supper on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and weekends. He had a duty to his students to be available for office hours.

As the term progressed, Harry found he enjoyed teaching more than he’d anticipated, and with this new awareness of himself came unexplainable feelings of guilt. He _liked_ teaching.

His work at the Ministry was fulfilling, but it would never be fulfilling in the way that teaching was. Seeing his students flourish and develop their skills. Seeing someone cast a Patronus Charm for the first time. There was, and would never be, anything comparable to that feeling.

As a professor, he could work free of the blinders he had to use at the Ministry. At Hogwarts, he dealt with bullies and detentions. That was the extent of the harm committed amongst the student body, and while it could get out of hand at times, Harry never had to shut down parts of himself to decide on a proper resolution. He was fair. He was impartial. There was no talk of blood status when he set out to discipline students for misbehaviour. There was no threat of pain for daring to act outside the norm.

Hogwarts existed inside of its own bubble, separate from the rest of the world. A domain where Harry could exist as Professor Potter rather than as the Dark Lord’s aide.

Without the schedule of exams to provide structure, without the time he spent with Tom, Harry might have found himself happily adrift in his new environment. But there _was_ structure, there was the clear passage of time as the school year drew to an end, and so Harry found himself watching the calendar as the days continued to tick by, sand in an hourglass, to the end of his teaching career. He had time, he told himself. He still had one more year.

* * *

That summer, he and Tom went abroad again, only this time they travelled for pleasure, not for business.

Not that this stopped Tom from poking his head around everywhere they went. Harry knew that the task of averting his death was still present in Tom’s mind, regardless of how many tasty foods they sampled or clever magical items they purchased.

Where there was talk of immortality, Tom would go, and Harry would follow.

Tom continued to seek Harry’s advice on problems at the Ministry, continued to pry for Harry’s opinions. And when Tom had no need for a conversational companion, he would talk through whatever was on his mind while Harry listened, attentive, used to his role as muse and inspiration to the man who ruled Wizarding Britain.

But the fact remained that Harry _liked_ teaching. With his work at Hogwarts came pride, an emotion he had not experienced in a long time.

And so Harry worried. Had Tom noticed his shift in perspective? What consequences would there be? If Tom forced him back to the Ministry, Harry couldn’t imagine how that would go. He wouldn’t fight it, but he would be disappointed, and that thought felt so much worse.

* * *

“The school year is nearly done, Harry. Have you come to a decision on what to do?”

Harry, sat at the staff table with his coworkers, poked sullenly at his breakfast plate. He had been avoiding the subject for weeks now, here at Hogwarts and at home with Tom. The longer he put this off, the more awkward it would be to bring it up, but he found himself unable to vocalize a decision.

“Not really,” Harry said.

Susan pursed her lips. Though she kept herself neutral in public, it was clear to Harry that her true loyalties did not lay with the Ministry. “Is it because the Dark Lord wants you back at the Ministry?” she asked, tone light. 

Harry thought over her words. Tom factored into every decision he made, had done so for as many years as Harry had been living in the manor with him. Harry’s presence in this very castle was a result of Tom’s authority. Harry was a secondary character in his own life, his purpose instead devoted to the life of the Dark Lord.

“You should think about it,” she added. “You fit in so well, and the students adore you. Hogwarts is a safe haven for many of them, and they look up to you.”

Maybe it was. But it had never been _his_ safe haven. His safe haven had always been with his people, with friends and family. What was a home without someone to share it with? It was an emptiness that hung heavy in every step. It was how he felt whenever he walked into Godric’s Hollow.

Harry had colleagues here at Hogwarts. Colleagues who had become friends. But it wasn’t a home, and he didn’t think it ever would be.

“I’ll think about it,” Harry promised her, and he hoped that she would not bring it up again.

* * *

The final Quidditch match of the year was between Slytherin and Ravenclaw.

Scorpius had inherited a taste for the sport from his parents, a penchant for Seeking from his father, and an impressive prowess for flying from his mother. He was the type of Seeker that Harry might have been, if Harry had ever played for the Gryffindor team.

Both Narcissa and Draco were in attendance in the stands today. Astoria was in the midst of preparing to finish her Masters; she had been threatened by husband and son both to prioritize her studies over the Quidditch game.

After some wheedling on Harry’s part, Harry had also secured Tom’s attendance for the match. The break would be good for him, Harry thought. A change in routine, a chance to touch base with the reality of the world outside of the Ministry.

The Quidditch game was as exciting as ever, the score bouncing back and forth between the two teams. The outcome would be down to whoever caught the Snitch. Scorpius flew a loop around the pitch, then stopped, turning sharply.

The stands grew wilder, the noise level rising as the spectators picked up on the reason for Scorpius’ change in direction. Harry could even see the Snitch at this distance, golden and glinting.

The Ravenclaw Seeker was far away from Scorpius, but one of the Ravenclaw Beaters slammed a Bludger down the field to their teammate.

Harry followed the trajectory of it, mapped out the paths, and realized what was going to happen a mere second before it did.

Scorpius fell into a dive just as the second Ravenclaw Beater smashed the Bludger in Scorpius’ direction, a last ditch attempt to avert the end of the game. Scorpius twisted his body mid-air, shielding his good arm from the hit as his hand stretched for the Snitch.

The Bludger slammed into his left arm with a violent _snap._

Scorpius’ body swung a loop as he toppled over, his legs clinging to his broomstick, and began a rapid descent towards the ground.

Harry had risen from his seat, wand at the ready, a spell on the tip of his tongue—

_“Arresto Momentum.”_

Tom’s voice carried loudly across the pitch, silencing the crowd. Under the direction of the Dark Lord, Scorpius drifted slowly down to the grass pitch.

Draco wasted no time in scrambling out of the stands; he was the first to reach his son on the field. Harry was right behind him, Tom and Narcissa striding after.

“Someone _do_ something!” Draco demanded as he drew near. Scorpius was cradling his broken arm, curled on his good side, face tracked with tears. Draco knelt down in the grass, panic stricken, his hands fluttering around his crying child.

“I know some spells,” Harry offered quickly. He could repair a broken bone.

“I want someone who actually _knows_ what they’re doing, Potter,” Draco spat, not looking up.

“Dad?” Scorpius said weakly.

Tom pressed near, his presence solid and commanding from behind Harry’s shoulder. “If you would allow me, Draco?”

Draco stiffened, then withdrew from his protective crouch. “Of course, my Lord.”

Another spell cast, a bright glow of light, and then Scorpius’ mangled arm was healed, the only evidence of the injury visible with the faint, already-fading scar and the jagged rip in his Quidditch uniform.

“I caught it,” Scorpius said breathlessly, struggling to sit up despite his father’s pleas to remain still. “I caught it, dad. Did you see?”

Some of the other players had landed nearby and were watching the gathering with wide eyes. Concerned for their classmate, but also held back because of the Dark Lord’s imposing nature. The Malfoys were a favoured family, and Tom’s actions had only confirmed this further.

In his first year at Hogwarts, Scorpius had found it hard to make friends, unsure if people wanted his companionship for his connections or not. Harry had helped the boy through it, had given advice as best he could, and eventually Scorpius had made a few good friends, even some from other houses, to round out his educational experience.

Both Scorpius and Draco stood up. Scorpius wiped at his face with the arm that was holding the Snitch. Then he blinked, glancing down at the golden ball before turning to face his father, his mouth forming words—

Hannah Abbott ran over, wand in hand. “Let me through! Let me see him!”

Tom gripped Harry’s shoulder and pulled them both a step back. “No need, Nurse Abbott,” Tom said. “As you can see, everything is perfectly fine.”

Hannah seemed flustered as she examined Scorpius’ arm with gentle hands. “He’ll still need to be checked over in the Hospital Wing, my Lord. Just to ensure there are no other injuries.”

“I would expect nothing less,” Tom said politely.

“I will go with you,” Narcissa said in a rush. “Come, Scorpius.” She took him under her arm, pulling him close as they walked back to the castle, Nurse Abbott beside them.

Draco was rooted in place, staring after them. His hands were shaking.

Harry was reminded of the decline of Astoria’s health, how her strength had drained month after month. During that time, Draco’s composed countenance, devastated with anguish and drenched in agony, had burned into Harry’s mind. Draco had coped poorly, partaking in prolonged bouts of solitude whenever he was not fussing over his wife. It had been hard for Scorpius to have his father at arm’s length during such a traumatic period, but Draco was trying hard to make up for that now.

“Are you alright?” Harry asked.

Surprise flashed across Draco’s face, but it was rapidly replaced with a placid mask. “I’m fine, Potter,” he said, sneering. Then he looked away again, frowning, that haunted look still present in the slump of his shoulders, the sallowness of his skin.

A second passed. Harry could practically feel Tom’s ire rising, and so he touched Tom’s chest lightly, pressing back, urging him to be quiet.

It was then that Draco’s eyes unfroze from their stern expression, those grey irises flickering back to Harry. Then Draco added, the words slow, like they were being pulled from him one at a time, “Thank you for offering to help. I didn't mean to be short with you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Harry told him. “I understand.”

Draco turned to face the Dark Lord, bowing. “And thank you, my Lord. For your aid. You have my eternal gratitude.”

Tom glanced at Harry, pensive, then back at Draco. “As Harry said. You need not worry about it.”

Harry pulled away from Tom and placed a hand on Draco’s forearm. “Go with them,” Harry whispered. “He wants you there.”

“I know that,” Draco said evenly. “I know he does.”

“Then make sure he knows you want to be there, too,” Harry said, gentling his tone. “He just wants to know that you’re proud of him. Go tell him.”

* * *

As Draco strode towards the castle, Harry swivelled back around and grasped Tom by the arm.

“Let’s walk around the grounds,” Harry said. “It’s been a while.” Since the start of the school year, they’d not had much time for walks.

They left the pitch and set out down the hill towards the Great Lake. They passed the broomshed, traversed the winding path lined with dirt and pebbles. Harry knew, with great familiarity, where all the dips and cracks lay in this particular path. He liked sitting by the lake whenever the weather was nice. The view of the water was calming; it helped ease his anxiety, helped steady his heavy heart.

“Hogwarts was my first home,” Tom said. His profile, outlined by the sun, was equal parts luminescent and ethereal.

“Hogwarts has a way of growing on you,” Harry agreed. “It’s home for a lot of people.” He’d made friends here. He’d met Ron, and Neville, and so many others. He’d enjoyed the most peaceful years of his life at Hogwarts.

“And for you?”

The question was delivered with a casualness that Harry would never mistake for true nonchalance. Tom’s eyes were a warm, burning red in the light of late afternoon. His mouth was relaxed, a sloping line refined by decades of practice.

“No,” Harry said. “I’ve learned that home isn’t about the place. It’s about the people.”

“The people,” Tom repeated patiently. They walked a few more steps, and then he added, “People like the Malfoys?”

Harry had called their manor ‘home’ for years now, had never used the word ‘home’ for anything else. And before that, before he had reconciled with spending the rest of eternity with Lord Voldemort, he had leapt between safehouses, always on the move, always wary of creeping shadows and sudden loud noises.

This was no hero’s journey Harry had undertaken, and he was aware that Tom would never be anything less than a villain, regardless of what the history books had been told to say. There were wrongs between them that Harry had yet to forgive. Wrongs he might never be able to forgive fully.

But Tom had saved Astoria, and today he had saved Scorpius. Those actions had value. They had meaning.

“I want to stay at Hogwarts,” Harry said, stopping mid-step, his decision snapping into place. “As the Defense professor. And it’s not because I want to live here, or because I don’t like working with you. I want to teach, and you helped me realize that. That I like teaching.”

Tom said nothing, but his pace slowed to a halt. Harry felt Tom’s full attention on him like an unrelenting vice in his chest, straining his lungs millimeter by millimeter.

“I asked you once,” Harry said, holding Tom’s gaze, unblinking, “if you had actually wanted to teach at Hogwarts. You never really gave me an answer.”

That conversation had happened before all other things had happened. Before their path had curved in the direction they now followed. Harry had asked his question out of curiosity, out of a desire to hear the origins of the monster explained. As though Voldemort’s reasons could have been as simple as hating Dumbledore and wanting to teach Defense. It was not that simple, not at all, but that did not mean there were no grains of truth hidden within the words.

Harry took a breath, inhaled the cool summer air of the Hogwarts grounds. “You kept this position cursed for _years._ Because Hogwarts means something to you. Because this job means something to you.” Harry paused, then added, “You wanted _me_ to be the one to break the curse.”

“This position is hardly more prestigious than any other,” said Tom, with a cultivated, detached air. “I have no need for it. I could pass the time as Headmaster, if I desired.”

“I know,” said Harry, taking Tom’s hand in his, running his thumb over the clunky heirloom ring that rested on Tom’s forefinger. “But listen to me. I’m not going to leave our home for Hogwarts, or Potter Cottage, or even, Godric forbid, Malfoy Manor. I like where we live because _you’re_ there, okay? I’m content with what we have.”

“If you are content with what we have,” Tom said, a hint of stress fraying the edges of his perfect mask, “then why do you need to work here? Is your work at the Ministry not suitable?” 

“This is something I want,” Harry said. “Something that will make me happy.”

Tom’s cheek muscle twitched. Harry eyed it, waiting, then glanced back up. Tom always looked the same. Same dark curls, same severe bone structure, same alabaster skin. His features were devastating in their contrast, like Tom had been chiselled from pale marble rather than flesh, modelled as a caricature of what the perfect man ought to look like. Crimson eyes, straight nose, and thin lips. Handsome, but inhuman, accentuated by decades of dark magic.

“You have years with me,” Harry said softly. “Years and years and years. Let me share just a bit of my time with the world.”

Tom’s hand curled, smothering Harry’s smaller one, swallowing it up, the fingers clasping tight like teeth. Then Tom’s eyes slid shut, as though to savour the moment. Their palms grew warm. The heat, the physicality; all of it was almost unbearable.

“Harry,” Tom said softly. He pulled Harry in, closer and closer, so that his other hand could brush at the hair on Harry’s forehead. “There is nothing I wouldn’t do to see you happy, you understand. So long as you never leave, I will provide what you ask of me.”

Tom was fond of him. Harry knew this, could hardly dare to believe it, most days. But with moments like today, with words like that, it made sense.

Harry tilted his head back, felt the sun warm his face, felt Tom’s words soak into his skin, a sunkissed vow.

“I’ve made my home with you, Tom.” His hand slipped from Tom’s, moving to cup the harsh curve of Tom’s face, to lightly thumb at the shadowy shapes under his eyes. “I made a promise that I would stay by your side. You have me until I die; no more, no less.”

And then Harry smiled, because here was where they parted ways, here was where Tom refused to meet him. Here was the gaping chasm between them that Harry attempted to bridge.

“You have me,” Harry promised, “until you decide to let me go.”

The moment did not break. The golden warmth held, the sun reflected in Tom’s eyes, the beautiful summer skies above them, the two of them locked in partial embrace.

“Let’s go _home,_ then,” Tom murmured.

Hands held tight, and then they Disapparated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter underwent a lot of major edits; more than once, actually. i think i am satisfied with the result. honestly, i expect the end of the story to be the hardest to write. we'll see how it goes. no idea if it'll take me one more chapter or not ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	31. Afterlife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps Harry would have, in every other variation of this universe, still gazed upon the man who had fled from death and decided to help him.

“Come in,” Harry said.

The door to his office swept open, revealing the thin figure of Scorpius Malfoy. Scorpius was wrapped up in formal robes of emerald green, his Prefect’s badge pinned proudly to his chest.

“Uncle Harry,” said Scorpius, swinging around into the chair in front of Harry’s desk and plopping down in it.

Scorpius had not been made Head Boy for his seventh year, as that title had gone to Goldstein in Hufflepuff. But Scorpius was secure in his own accomplishments, a security that had taken hard work to build and bolster. Harry was proud of him all the same.

“Shouldn’t you be somewhere else right now?” Harry asked, amused. “The ceremony’s in a few hours.”

Scorpius shrugged. “They can do without me.”

That brought a smile to Harry’s lips. “Making your rounds, then? I did the same thing on my last day.”

“Eh.” Scorpius rocked back in his chair, swinging his legs haphazardly over the armrest in a way that would have scandalized Narcissa had she been here to witness it. “I said goodbye to most of my professors yesterday. I’ve just come to hang here with you.”

“Consider me honoured,” Harry said, hand to his heart, “that you’ve deemed me worthy of your good company.”

“Don’t tell Slughorn,” Scorpius said, conspiratorial as he leant in, “but you’re my favourite.”

Harry laughed. “Should you be saying this aloud? I fear your fellow Slytherins might have your head for that.”

“Please,” said Scorpius, hand waving. “As if you’re not their favourite as well. They’re just too uptight to admit liking the _Head of Gryffindor._ ” The title was spoken in a mocking tone and accompanied by a dramatic eye roll.

“And you’re much more advanced than that,” Harry said sarcastically. “Emotionally speaking.”

Scorpius parked his elbows on the desk, propping his chin on his hands as he grinned. “I learned from the best.”

* * *

When the school was at last empty of graduates and their families, Tom came to see him in his quarters. As Head of Gryffindor, Harry’s room was spacious, more spacious than Harry really cared for it to be.

But his students knew to find him here, which was the important part. Harry had filled this space with photographs, various posters, and gifts from his old students. The gifts he blamed on Horace, really, because the Potions professor had turned the act into something like a tradition.

Harry was in the middle of sorting the last of his belongings while Tom waited for him. He would leave most of his possessions here over the summer; Tom was meticulous about having duplicates of everything everywhere, so there was little need for Harry to pack items that didn’t have unique utility or personal value.

“Another successful year,” Tom said, musing. He’d spent a good deal of time chatting with the students this year, much to Harry’s surprise. Tom called it ‘scoping the talent’, and now quite a few of the students, most of the top ones, at any rate, were slated for the Ministry.

“Yeah,” Harry said. “It always feels really nice, you know? These kids have so much to be proud of.” He stuffed his stationery box into his bag and pulled the drawstring shut. “Okay, that’s it, I think. We can go home now.”

Tom smiled at the word, as he sometimes did when Harry spoke of the place where they lived, and held open the door. Ever the gentleman, Harry thought with no small amount of amusement. A man born and raised in the aftermath of a terrible war; a man who had masterminded and won a war of his own.

“After you,” said Tom, all charm as he gestured Harry out into the hallway.

Tom could Apparate them directly out of this room if he wished. He never did, though. Harry knew that Tom liked to linger in the school, tracing those familiar paths of his childhood. They would stroll the halls, wander the rolling grounds, climb the stairs to the Astronomy Tower. 

And then, at the very end of the day, they would return home.

* * *

Harry and Tom landed in the front hall of the manor, and without pausing they headed upstairs, towards Harry’s bedroom. It took Harry a second to realize that, yes, Tom did seem intent on following him all the way there.

Harry kept his pace casual, acted like nothing was amiss, and waited for Tom to say whatever he was currently mulling over.

“How long do you see yourself teaching?” Tom asked. “Now that young Scorpius has graduated,” he added.

“I dunno,” Harry said, tossing his bag onto his bed. “Until I get tired of it, I suppose.”

Tom stepped over to the window and stood a half-meter away from the glass, facing the view of the manor grounds. His reflection was visible in the large pane, the faint mirror image of Tom shifting as he said, “And will you? Tire of it.”

“I suppose,” Harry said. “I don’t know when or how it’ll happen, but I think eventually I would like to try something else.”

As of right now, there were days when teaching felt brand new to him. A student’s question could prompt an entire class discussion on the pitfalls of using a Shield Charm in an enclosed space. Or a particularly well-written essay could send Harry to the Hogwarts library for further reading. Or he could take a wrong turn and wander down a corridor he’d never seen before.

There was so much _newness_ that existed within Hogwarts; Harry figured it would take decades for him to truly learn everything there was to know.

“When that does happen,” Tom said, still facing the window, “you are to let me know.”

* * *

Scorpius started working at the Ministry. He was working under Theodore, which was unexpected. Was Scorpius’ assignment a coincidence, or was it intentional? Or did such things no longer matter, because Harry worked at Hogwarts?

Harry had kept up a distant correspondence with Theodore over the years, and while Harry did not think they would ever be close again, they were comfortable. Cordial, even. So maybe it was not too much to hope that Tom could learn to accept death, because he had proven he could grow from his previous ways.

Tom had changed in many, many little ways that Harry took great pleasure in tallying. A mental count of the things Tom did that could be classified as genuinely good. And though the actions were small, they added up.

The plague of Tom’s ego was satisfied with the iron-handed ruling of a peaceful magical Britain, with the simpering of his subordinates and the subjugation of a population. Similarly, the restlessness of Tom’s brilliant mind was occupied fully with the minding of Harry Potter and with the task of re-conquering death.

While there would always be darkness within Tom Riddle, would always be that deep, horrible capacity for cruelty—that darkness had been lessened. Time had tempered the Dark Lord, and Harry’s gentle hand had guided the rest.

Life was fulfilling. Harry saw the Malfoys regularly, spent the occasional holiday with Remus, and attended social gatherings with his coworkers.

Someday, Harry might find himself unsatisfied with this. But for now, he simply could not imagine anything else.

* * *

Harry was slumped against Tom’s side on the long couch in the sitting room while Tom paged through a book on potions. They did not spend much time in this room, but lately Harry had been itching for a change in scenery, and so he’d convinced Tom to make use of the furniture in here. Now Harry could sprawl out, long-limbed, over the comfortable surface of the couch.

Tom carded a hand through Harry’s hair, his fingertips brushing at the scalp. Harry tilted his head to allow better access. The sensation was nice, bordering on pleasurable. Did cats feel like this when they were petted by people? Had Nagini?

Harry was a bit like a pet, wasn’t he? He had started out as Voldemort’s pet, as a trophy to be paraded about at the Ministry. And then he’d gained value outside of that, as a worker and a confidante. And now… now he was something else entirely.

Now they were something else to each other, too.

Tom shifted the arm Harry was laying against. Harry was loath to break the quiet sanctity of the moment, but the timing felt right, and so he had to ask the question that had simmered in his mind for some time now.

“Tom,” he said.

“Hmm?”

“Why don’t you want me to die?”

Harry felt Tom shift beneath him, and so Harry reluctantly sat up so that they could look at each other properly. The book on potions was set aside as Tom refocused, a hint of a frown tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Why do you not want to live?” Tom said in return, tone measured.

“It’s not like that,” Harry said. “Living forever—that’s not something I want for myself.” He paused, trying to gauge how well the question would be received, then asked, “Do you believe in an afterlife, Tom?”

Tom’s face closed off, a blankness shuttering over his expression. “There is _no such thing_ as an afterlife.”

This was jarring to hear. The idea of an afterlife was so firmly rooted in the way that Harry viewed the world that to hear such a firm denial caused a minor wave of disorientation to wash over him.

“But there are ghosts!” Harry protested. “We have _ghosts,_ how can you say that?”

“You may call them ghosts, but I fail to see how they could compare to their deceased counterparts. Look at Binns: tethered to Hogwarts for decades, and not a single speck of self-awareness within him,” Tom said, adopting the voice he typically used for teaching. Only his tone was more distant, more detached than usual, which was worrisome.

Tom continued, “What people believe to be ghosts are merely caricatures of the dead. Personalities exaggerated and memories distorted by time and magic. Ghosts are magical images that linger because of traumatic incidents, incidents which trigger the release of unintentional magical energies. Without a physical form, the magic is contained in the form of the spirit. Much like the reverse of a Horcrux, in a way.”

“I believe in an afterlife,” Harry said. “There is more waiting for us after death. And even so, I wouldn’t want to spend the rest of my life here, watching the people around me die.”

“People do die,” Tom said off-handedly. “And you will meet new ones.”

Tom still refused to assign emotional value to others. Harry would have thought that, over the years, some progress had been made. And maybe it had, only Tom would not admit it, and he would certainly not admit it in the middle of this discussion. 

Seeing that this tactic was not one that would work, Harry decided to redirect his argument. “Time gives things meaning. If you had all the time in the world, then you would never need to _do_ anything, because there would always be more time to do it in.”

“I find it hard to believe you would ever lack work ethic, Harry. You work because you enjoy it, not because you find it necessary.”

“You’ll get bored,” Harry said. “You’re already bored of the Ministry. You spend more time on research than you do thinking about the educational budget or mending goblin relations.”

This had been apparent to Harry from the beginning of his time at the Ministry. While Tom excelled at everything he did, his real enjoyment was derived from exacting control, from seeing the submission of others. All because of Tom’s exaggerated sense of self-importance, his firm belief that the people around him were worthless and below notice. Tom worked best when there was someone to beat, something to conquer. Be it Albus Dumbledore, or Death, or the immovable willfulness of Harry Potter.

“I am not bored,” Tom said, his tone dropping dangerously. “I am perfectly satisfied with the ruling of Britain.”

Harry didn’t quite believe that. There was satisfaction wrought from a job well done, but for someone like Tom, who insisted on knowing everything that went on within the Ministry, it could grow tedious. There was only so much paperwork that Harry was willing to look at, and Tom had piles of reports from all areas of the Ministry.

Even though Tom was lying, this was far from the only argument Harry had to offer. There were other matters Harry had thought about, beliefs he held close to his chest, cradled like tiny birds in the nest of his heart.

“My parents are waiting for me,” Harry said softly. “And Sirius. And many others, I’m sure. I want to see them again someday, Tom. I don’t want to spend forever here. I want to move on.”

Tom said nothing, only gazed down upon Harry with an inscrutable expression. Was he mad? Harry knew that his words could be interpreted as a desire to leave despite the number of times he had promised to stay with Tom for as long as he lived. 

Reassurances never seemed to be enough. Tom was always fearful of death, of Harry’s departure, even if he never said so. 

“You are entitled to your beliefs,” Tom said at last. “But you _will_ live, Harry. This is not a negotiation, I hope you understand. There is no afterlife. You are safer and more protected by my side than anywhere else.”

Harry opened his mouth to argue more—

“Enough,” Tom said sharply. “I am not entertaining this discussion any further. You have sworn yourself to me, and my mind is not to be changed. I am sorry if this fact upsets you, but you will accept your fate as I have decreed it, and that is my final decision on the subject.”

Tom stood up, his face still fixed in that chiselled, arrogant mask, and left the room.

Harry sat there, alone, suddenly out of sorts now that Tom was gone.

He felt strange. Like he was adrift, no longer tethered to the couch, or even to his own body. Harry suspected that was because he was so _used_ to Tom being around; Tom’s abrupt departure had left the room uncomfortably empty. Tom had a presence that naturally drew the eye, a magnetism that was amplified when he spoke, voice smooth and rumbling. It was hard _not_ to notice his absence.

Disgruntled, Harry glanced over at the book that Tom had left behind. Potions book. Harry snatched it up, went to reshelve it. If not for the House-Elves, this entire mansion would be a mess of books and parchment scrolls. This fleeting thought was met with some level of amusement as Harry slid the book into its proper place. He knew Tom. He knew Tom better than anyone else, but only because Tom had let him in. Had let them grow closer to each other.

He and Tom had reached some odd accordance of affection. Tom liked it when they held hands, when he could place a possessive touch on Harry’s waist or shoulder. When they sat on the couch, side by side, limbs brushing. Sometimes they would hug. It was nice. It was not anything Harry could have ever imagined happening, all those years ago, but it was where they were now.

Harry had accepted Voldemort. Or had at least come to accept Voldemort enough to exercise some measure of empathy and compassion. 

And then—and then there had been _Tom._

A name reborn out of Harry’s desire to save the world, or some insanity like that.

Perhaps it had been a mistake to give the monster a name. Harry had separated the ‘then’ from the ‘now’, had closed the door on the past that was painful to look at. 

He had convinced himself that Tom could be saved, that this was not necessarily the right path, but the best path he had available to him.

Perhaps they would have found themselves in this situation anyways: bound through prophecy and led on by fate’s wicked decree. Voldemort had attempted to conquer fate, had defied the laws of the universe with his evasion of death. 

Such hubris wrought punishment, and this punishment lay in the potential Harry had to die. Because Tom _cared,_ and this change of heart was as irreversible as the fact that their souls were now tied together.

Perhaps Harry would have, in every other variation of this universe, still gazed upon the man who had fled from death and decided to help him.

So maybe there was affection. Maybe there was something else.

Or maybe, Harry thought, it was just the soul piece inside of him, longing for the whole.

* * *

Harry continued to teach at Hogwarts. The students came and went, the years wearing on, the world around him shifting so rapidly that Harry felt that his own pace was rather glacial in comparison. He and Tom, tectonic plates that moved slowly as one, did not follow the well-worn path of others.

Because Narcissa’s hair was a shining, delicate silver, and Astoria had fine lines around her brilliant eyes, and Scorpius was a fully-grown young man with a lovely fiancee.

And so it came about that Harry had not tired of teaching, but rather…

But rather, it had become painfully obvious to him that if he was to remain here forever, a fixture in the castle, a ghost amongst the ever-changing staff, there would be no recourse for his heart as the world continued to age rapidly around him.

* * *

Harry was having tea with Remus in Potter Cottage when the thought slipped out.

“I’ve been thinking about leaving Britain.”

Remus set his cup of tea back down on the tray with a steady hand. “I’m not surprised to hear that, Harry.”

Harry stared in shock. He had been sitting on this thought for some time now, but this was the first time he’d seen fit to vocalize it. To him, the notion seemed utterly absurd. Leave Britain? And go where? 

Voldemort had once spoken of travelling the world. And they had done some of that already, only it did not feel like enough to last a single lifetime, let alone several of them. There were days where Harry despaired over his potential eternity, when everything felt cold and devoid of meaning, when he could fill hours by gazing out the window of his office, listless and aching.

“There are too many memories tied here,” Remus continued, shaking his head. “And you’ve never been good with lingering.”

Harry wasn’t sure what about him had given off that impression. He was even less sure if it was true. Was it not a necessary part of life to leave the past behind? There were parts of his old life that he missed. Parts that he revisited, when he had the courage to do so. But mostly he tried not to think about it; it was easier, and _safer,_ not to.

“I just… I don’t know what to do,” Harry admitted. “I feel—maybe not restless—but that being here isn’t the right choice anymore?”

Remus exhaled slowly, not quite like a sigh, and sat back in his chair. “What is the right choice for you, Harry? Not the one for him. What do you want for yourself?”

There wasn’t an answer to that question that Harry could articulate easily. Everything between him and Tom was complicated. There were no _right_ choices here. There were only vague options. There were vague options Harry could choose from, but one bad choice could send them all tumbling into disaster.

“It’s more complicated than that,” Harry said awkwardly, unsure how many of his problems he wanted to share. “My choices aren’t just about me.”

Remus made a negative noise in response. “Harry. Your choices are _supposed_ to be about you. When was the last time you did anything for yourself?”

Harry would hear the implication. When was the last time he had done something that was not for Tom?

“I teach at Hogwarts,” Harry said. “That was my decision. I was… I was only supposed to stay on for just the one year.” He had asked Tom to let him stay on, and Tom had given in despite his reservations and his pride. 

There were times when Tom commented idly on how he missed Harry’s presence at the Ministry. Harry knew such statements were meant to lure him back, to affect some measure of guilt. But Tom had never pushed too far, and eventually the comments had died away altogether. Harry supposed that Tom at last felt secure enough in Harry’s desire to remain at home that he no longer worried about Harry ditching him for Hogwarts. 

“I know you do love teaching, Harry. But you teach for your students, not as much for yourself. Because you care about them.” Remus paused, fondness apparent in the tone of his voice as he continued, “And that’s part of what makes you such a wonderful teacher. But that doesn’t also mean you don’t deserve to take care of yourself first.”

Harry felt his insides churn uncomfortably at the words. This was not something he knew how to do. Most of his life revolved around the care of others, the duty he took upon himself to bear. Where would he be, if not for the prophecy? If not for Voldemort? 

Harry knew how to live a life for others, and while he worked at Hogwarts, he had gotten a taste of living life for himself. But for whatever reason, it was still not enough. Harry failed to feel content with it, and because of that he felt guilty.

“Don’t—don’t be like me, Harry,” said Remus. “You told me that the past was gone and done with. You have the world at your feet. Eternity at your fingertips. Go and see what it has to offer.”

* * *

Harry found Tom in the study. He was staring down at a parchment scroll hovering in the air before him. The parchment was facing Tom, which meant that Harry couldn’t see what was written on it.

“Hey,” Harry said, hovering in the doorway.

The parchment rolled itself up and vanished. Harry took that as his cue to enter the room and settle into his usual chair. Tom was calm, from what Harry could both discern with his eyes and feel through the tenuous bond that existed between them.

They had not utilized this bond often over the years. Harry found it odd that Tom never saw fit to exercise control over this aspect of their relationship. If Harry had to guess, he would say that Tom was afraid of looking too closely lest he find something upsetting. 

But sometimes, Harry was subject to dreams that were not quite his own.

What did Dark Lords dream of?

Harry didn’t know; he would always wake with little to no recollection of his mental excursions into Tom’s mind. There was only Tom’s faint presence in his head, always familiar to him, even during the confusing state between sleep and wakefulness. And even if Harry had not immediately recognized the essence of Tom in his mind, who else could it be? 

Harry felt Voldemort’s impact all over: on his scar-marred forehead, on his frozen, ageless body. His mind was just another piece of him that bore the fingerprints of the Dark Lord.

“You have something on your mind,” Tom said. It was not a question, but it was also not a directive, which Harry was thankful for. He was having difficulty approaching this conversation already. The additional pressure to respond would have made it harder.

Harry clasped his hands together in his lap. “You once told me that if I got tired of teaching at Hogwarts, I should tell you.”

The calm expression on Tom’s face vanished, replaced almost instantly by the cold, unfeeling mask. Harry was alarmed by the sight of it. What was Tom thinking? The mask was a shield, an impenetrable one, and the use of it never gave away its cause. Harry doubted he would ever be able to read it, to predict what was going on in Tom’s head.

“Yes?” Tom said, and the tone could have been described as warm if not for the odd, almost calculating look in his eyes.

“I’m—” Harry faltered, unnerved by Tom’s sudden change in demeanour. It seemed on some level he would always be concerned with what Tom thought of him.

Tom waited, motionless, for Harry to gather himself.

Harry swallowed. He wanted to try and speak again, but his heart was pounding too fast and his hands felt numb. The guilt came in waves, he thought. Guilt over being discontent with his life. Guilt for what he was about to ask for.

Hogwarts should have been the perfect place for him. He should have been happy to work there, to live there, to help as many students as he could. In another world, it would have been the _perfect_ life. Only Harry’s life was far from perfect, and beyond that, his life did not belong to him, but to another.

“Harry,” said Tom, gentle but insistent.

Harry glanced up. He had been unaware that, in his anxiety, his head had dropped and his gaze had pulled away. Tom was watching him closely now, his brows pulled ever-so-slightly together and his mouth tilted around the edges.

Harry recognized this look. Tom was worried. Tom was worried about _him,_ only Tom didn’t know _why_ Harry was upset, let alone how to remedy it, because Harry still wasn’t saying anything. That made Harry feel even worse.

“Sorry,” Harry said automatically. Then he winced at his own apology. He’d made an effort to pull back from apologizing for things outside of his control. It never failed to irritate him when he slipped up.

Tom said nothing for a moment longer, only staring, deciding. Then Tom lifted a hand and beckoned Harry forward.

Harry stood on wobbly legs and stumbled over without thinking. A few steps brought him over to Tom’s chair, and then he was once again at a loss for what to do. What did Tom want from him? What was he supposed to do now?

But Tom reached for him, fingers clasping around Harry’s wrist, and Harry was drawn in like a tide to the shoreline.

They were nearer than was normal for a conversation like this. Harry could see the darker flecks of crimson in Tom’s eyes. The neutral mask was melting away to reveal a mixture of concern and contemplation.

“You want to leave Hogwarts?” Tom asked quietly.

“I—” Harry took a deep breath, tried again, “I think that I want to leave Britain, too.” He scanned Tom’s face for signs of displeasure, concerned about Tom’s response. “With you,” Harry added, in case that hadn’t been clear. “Because you once said that we might leave someday, that you couldn’t claim to know the future or what it would hold.”

Harry’s wrist was still encased in Tom’s hand, those long fingers cool and solid like the bars of an iron cage. But the touch was light; the grip was not hurtful. Harry moved his arm backwards so that Tom’s thumb slid down, caressing his palm, and left it there.

“I had assumed that would be a day far in the future,” Tom said. “That you would be content to remain here for some time yet.”

Harry lowered himself to the carpet, sinking to his knees, knowing that this position would resurface memories of another night, of another request that Harry had once made.

“I can’t stay here,” Harry said, lifting his head up just enough to make eye contact. “I can’t watch the world age around me while I look like—while I look like this. The same. The longer I stay here, the more people I meet—” The more people he grew to care for, the more of them he would have to watch age and die. “—I can’t do it. Please… please don’t ask it of me.”

Tom froze. Harry blinked at him, wondering if his pleading had been too much and Tom was about to deny him on the basis of emotions being useless.

“You care too much,” Tom said, but his tone was not unkind.

Harry’s hand trembled where it lay within Tom’s. He did care too much. He cared so much that the feel of it was going to burn him alive. Harry did not fear death, but he did fear oblivion. He did not want to live so long that people lost meaning to him. He did not want to live so long that _life_ lost meaning to him.

Harry could only think of that white room, of being nothing and having nothing. Of lying on the cold stone altar as the Horcrux potion had consumed him. That was what Harry imagined eternity would feel like, and he did not doubt that Tom would make good on his vow to keep Harry alive.

“I have promised to take care of you,” Tom said solemnly, when Harry did not speak. “And all I have asked is that you remain with me. If you wish to leave, then we can. Together.” 

Harry tilted back in surprise, steadied only by Tom’s grip, which by now felt like the only real thing holding him in place. Tom’s gaze was serious. Harry found himself leaning back in to observe it, to soak up the heavy attention.

“It will take me some time to sort the affairs of the Ministry to function in my absence,” Tom continued, “and I will expect to be able to return when necessary. I have major projects underway, and there is still research to be done. I have the Unspeakables working on the task of keeping you alive, though they know little about the real aims of their assignment.”

Harry didn’t like hearing that last part, but he swallowed it down anyways. It made sense that Tom would begin to outsource the problem, to gather the brightest minds from Hogwarts and set them to work on keeping Harry alive. What was one bitter pill in the face of the gift Tom was offering him? Harry could accept this. He had already promised to accept this.

“We can go?” Harry asked, just to hear the words again, to be sure they were true.

“We may,” Tom confirmed. His hand contracted, squeezing, and his eyes did not leave Harry’s face. “Would you like to choose the destination? I do recall you enjoyed our time in Greece…”

Dizzy with relief, Harry settled against the armchair, pressing his cheek against the lower part of the armrest, and listened as Tom began to lecture on the benefits of living by the ocean. Tom’s voice was soothing, and his hand slid to caress Harry’s head, fingers stroking idly through his hair.

Harry allowed his eyes to slide shut. He would let his worries vanish for the time being. He could focus on the fact that soon his gilded cage would expand to include the entirety of earth, and he would not think of what would happen to him once that, too, began to feel stifling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> longest chapter yet, at well over five thousand words. evidently these two still have quite a bit more story left in them lol. thanks for reading, thoughts are always appreciated in the comments 


	32. Bound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry was once again reminded that Tom would always look this way, chiselled and painfully handsome. That no matter where they went or how long they stayed there, neither of them would ever age.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw depression in this chapter

Harry awoke to the distant sound of Tom yelling at someone.

He rubbed at his face, stretching his body out across his large bed, luxuriating in the heavenly feel of the silk sheets. The sun was only just visible through the thick curtains on the right side of the room.

Harry forced himself up anyways and searched for his glasses. If Tom was yelling at someone and Harry could hear it, that meant that whoever it was had gotten Tom angry enough that he’d forgotten to cast sound-muffling charms.

Placing his glasses on his face, Harry reached for his wand next. A quick _Tempus_ revealed that it was, in fact, absurdly early.

Harry stumbled through his morning routine, eschewing a shower in favour of speed, and made his way towards the living room where the Floo was.

“What’s going on—?”

Harry cut himself off. The living room was empty. 

Harry scanned the fireplace, then the mantle, and sure enough, the lid of the Floo powder pot was ajar.

Whatever had happened, it was officially too late for Harry to intervene. It had been over fifteen years since he’d worked at the Ministry, anyways. Anxiety rationalized, Harry went to their tiny kitchen to prepare some breakfast. The familiar motions of preparing food would help distract him from his worries.

* * *

Tom returned while Harry was in the middle of stacking pancakes. 

The Dark Lord was fully dressed, not a hair out of place, the lines of his robes clean and pressed. He smiled as he caught sight of Harry in the kitchen.

Tom may not have looked like he’d just come back from committing murder, but Harry wouldn’t put it past him to have done so anyways.

“Pancakes?” Tom asked, stepping forward. He pulled close, leaning just over Harry’s shoulder.

“Yep,” said Harry. “And I’ve got blueberry syrup.”

Tom made a dismissive sound. He didn’t care much for excessive sugar; he claimed it was the result of a childhood weaned on bland foods.

“There’s butter on the opposite counter,” Harry said lightly, still focused on his task.

Tom’s hand settled his shoulder for a brief second, fingers pressing down in a gentle gesture, and then he drifted away.

“So, who was it this morning?” Harry asked, once he’d gotten two plates full of pancakes and sliced bananas all sorted, one dish balanced in each hand.

Tom took one of the plates without asking and led them to the small wooden round table just outside the kitchen. “No one important,” he said curtly, and then he changed the subject.

Harry let it go. If it was important, then Tom would tell him. Otherwise… otherwise he was likely better off not knowing.

* * *

They did not stay in one place for long. Harry liked to explore, to wander new areas and admire nature, culture, and people alike. He had never nursed such an urge before, but now he found that he looked at the world with new, curious eyes. Time slid by in a blur as the seasons changed wildly depending on where they travelled. 

Tom knew a little bit about everything, and he was happy to impart this knowledge whenever Harry asked. The topics that Tom did not know, they would learn together. 

Harry practiced new spells and new languages everywhere they went. He picked up new skills. His palms had never been truly soft before, but now that they were travelling, Harry insisted on doing many things by hand. And so his palms rebuilt their previous roughness, the roughness that was the result of calluses crafted by war. 

Only now there was no war. There was only the solid sense of _creation_ that came from making things without magic. Harry had not raised a wand at anyone in decades. He hoped he would never have to do so again.

Whenever Harry wanted to move, Tom would arrange their accommodations. There were beautiful villas, expensive hotel rooms, and an expandable tent for when they ventured into less-populated areas. 

Harry learned that he liked it best whenever there was a kitchen, for he had grown fond of cooking in a way he’d never done before. There was a soothing element to preparing a meal, knowing he had all the ingredients and following all of the correct steps to produce the proper result.

Harry had also decided that he liked the constant change of environment, the shifting landscapes and the roaring ocean waves and the cold, high mountains. Their planet was beautiful and vast, as Tom had described it to be. Sometimes, Harry felt he was becoming one with the world in a strange, wonderful way.

He was not certain if he was content, but he was sure that this was the best choice he could have made. The travel kept him busy, kept his mind occupied. 

There was only him and Tom and the splendour of humanity around them. There was less need for Harry to linger on his own personal troubles. 

Especially one trouble in particular.

Harry would always turn the other way when Tom asked locals for lore regarding death.

* * *

Harry traced a lazy circle in the sand with the wooden staff he had made from a large branch on the beach. He had found and carved it himself, just something to occupy his hands while they had sat by the water.

Tom had made fun of it, saying that staffs were for wizards much older than he was. That comment had rubbed Harry the wrong way, and now his mood was melancholy at best as he trailed along the sandy path that led up to the cottage they were staying in.

As they set foot on the part of the path that was made of rocks, Tom began to talk about something else, going on and on about it, but Harry was only half-listening to the conversation.

Once the cottage was in sight, Harry transferred his staff to his other hand. He didn’t much like having it now, but to get rid of it would be to cave and admit that Tom’s joke had bothered him, and so he was going to have to keep it. 

Harry prodded the front door open and set the staff in the umbrella holder where he could avoid looking at it. 

“Harry?” asked Tom.

“Yes?” Harry answered, looking over.

Tom was still in the doorway. He was backlit by the golden sun behind him, meaning his face was mostly cast in shadow. His silhouette was traced by a soft glow that looked, from this distance, as though it ought to be tangible. 

Harry was once again reminded that Tom would _always_ look this way, chiselled and painfully handsome. That no matter where they went or how long they stayed there, neither of them would ever age.

“You’re distant today,” Tom said. The sentence lacked inflection, which only meant that Harry didn’t understand the context that Tom wanted him to pick up on.

“Maybe?” Harry shrugged. “I think I might go and take a nap.”

Tom frowned and took a few more steps into the cottage, the door shutting automatically behind him. 

Harry did not move. He waited for Tom to approach him.

Tom drifted forward, grasping Harry’s forearms and pulling them close to his chest. His gaze was searching, measuring, as it washed over Harry’s face. The scrutiny was not uncomfortable; Harry was used to Tom treating him like an enigma to be solved. 

There was even a gentleness to the way Tom regarded him, like Tom thought a stern glower would be too much for him to handle.

Harry tried to smile, to reassure. Tom’s hands slid to Harry’s wrists, still holding them at chest level. The slender fingers wrapped around like shackles. Harry could feel Tom’s magic beneath the skin, a low hum of unspeakable power that existed purely at the point where their hands made contact. 

Then Harry felt Tom’s thumbs sweep over the inside of his wrists, over the delicate skin and veins there. This, too, was familiar and comfortable.

“Are you okay?” Harry asked. Because while all these actions were habitual on their own, the combination of all these things—Tom’s odd expression, the cautious way Tom was holding him, the sudden comment on his demeanour—did not add up.

“I’m fine,” Tom said. The words were tense, but then Tom’s shoulders unlocked from their harsh lines into a softer slope as he said, “Let’s go to the back porch.”

Harry’s concern increased. “Okay,” he said.

Tom stared for a second longer, then took Harry by the hand and began to move. Harry allowed himself to be directed through the cottage, unsure what was going on.

The porch was home to two simple wooden chairs and a small wooden bench. Harry liked to sit on the bench and watch the sunset. Tom preferred one of the chairs to the bench, but sometimes Harry could convince him to sit with him on the bench, a large blanket draped over them.

This time, after they stepped onto the sturdy wood of the back porch, Tom led them straight to the bench.

Harry sat down. Tom sat next to him, slid an arm around Harry’s back and shoulders, and Harry tilted over, leaning into the position, shuffling closer despite the warm weather.

The view was enchanting. Only a few paces down, the ground dropped away to a sheer cliff face, revealing an unobstructed stretch of seascape that went on for as far as the eye could see.

A breeze ruffled at their clothes and hair. Harry tore his gaze from the waters and looked tentatively up at Tom. Tom, surprisingly, still had his head turned towards the view. Whenever they usually sat out here, Harry would watch the water and the birds while Tom watched him.

Maybe there _was_ something off about Tom today, and Harry’s concern had not been unfounded. 

Harry turned his eyes back to the bewitching scenery before them, wondering if Tom was seeking answers in the hypnotic toss of the waves.

“Are you okay?” Harry asked again, quiet. 

Tom’s body tensed at this, then slowly relaxed. Harry could feel the slight pull and tug of muscle where they were pressed together. Such a human thing, that. The rush of blood pumping in his chest, and the careful flex of Tom’s arm wrapped around him.

A second passed. Harry debated asking a third time, but then Tom shifted, his shoulders angling.

Tom’s head dipped, and then Harry felt a soft press against the side of his head.

A kiss.

Harry blinked, not daring to move. He was curled against Tom’s side, wedged under Tom’s arm. He couldn’t breathe. The rolling waves, previously pleasant to watch, were now making him feel dizzy.

The breeze picked up. Neither of them said a word.

Eventually, Harry’s breathing evened out.

They sat together as the sun died in a blaze of fiery, extraordinary glory.

* * *

After that day, Tom took them to more populated areas. If there were a lot of people around, then they would alter their appearances slightly, just so no one would recognize the Dark Lord Voldemort and his aide, Harry Potter.

Harry didn’t mind the sudden change, though it did leave him feeling curious. What had brought this on?

Tom led them to museums and plays, to charity galas and local parties. For Harry, socializing too much could become draining, and eventually Harry had to beg off some of the events Tom tried to rope him into. 

That didn’t make Tom very happy. Harry knew that Tom expected his company wherever they went, only it was often exhausting for Harry to try and keep up.

Harry didn’t feel like socializing most of the time, and Tom did most of the talking at those things, anyways. Harry didn’t really need to be there at all. But he could endure some of it for Tom. He would try his best.

* * *

Harry tugged his blanket tighter around his shoulders. The Muggle television was playing a black and white film on low volume while Harry dozed in and out of wakefulness. Not many magical hotels had Muggle technology in them, so Harry was taking full advantage of the telly while he had access to it.

Tom was downstairs sorting payment with the front desk. They would be extending their stay here in Montreal for a few more days because Tom had discovered some compelling information on Dementors at a local magical research facility.

The door pushed open, creaking softly. Harry glanced up as Tom stepped into the room.

“Harry?” Tom asked as he shed his coat and hung it up. Then he strode over to the bed where Harry was lounging. “Are you feeling any better?”

“I’m fine. Just tired.” Though the fussing was appreciated, it wasn’t really necessary.

Tom eyed Harry speculatively for a moment.

“We will head out for dinner tonight,” Tom said, decisive. “There’s a recommended restaurant a few blocks down that we can walk to.”

“Okay,” Harry said. If Tom wanted to go, then they ought to go. “That sounds nice,” he added on, hoping he sounded suitably enthused.

Tom’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. Harry dragged his gaze back to the television, embarrassed by how easily Tom could read him.

The mattress dipped as Tom settled next to him and pulled one of Harry’s hands onto his lap. “Did you want to stay in again?” Tom asked carefully. He was frowning, his thumbs rubbing circles on the back of Harry’s hand. 

Harry pushed himself up a bit, adjusting his posture. “No,” Harry said. “We can go, really. I’m sure the food will be great.”

The frown lines on Tom’s face deepened. Harry struggled to contort his expression into a more eager one, but he must have failed because Tom’s grip on his hand tightened.

“The walk will be nice,” Harry said, now anxious.

Tom raised a hand to brush at Harry’s forehead, sweeping aside the bangs there as his cool palm touched against warm skin. Harry let his eyes fall shut, relishing in the intimacy of the touch. He felt safer when Tom was around. There was comfort in knowing that Tom was nearby, a calming aspect that helped to relax his body and clear his head.

“If you want to stay in, then we can,” Tom said, his breath fanning the words softly across Harry’s cheek. “I have no plans for the rest of the evening.”

Harry clutched at Tom’s free hand, unwilling to open his eyes. His chest felt so heavy. He had none of the answers that he wanted to have. None of the right answers that he could offer.

“Harry?” Tom asked, concern strung tight in the stiffness of his voice. “What do you want to do?”

Harry had asked himself this question many times.

_What did he want?_

And though his impulse answer had always been the same—that he did not know—the truth of it was not so simple.

Harry did know what he wanted, and it was not something that Tom was willing to give him.

“Let’s go out,” Harry said, opening his eyes. “The fresh air will help.”

Tom seemed reassured by this. He gave Harry’s hand another squeeze before he straightened. “Excellent. I will wait for you downstairs in the lobby while you get dressed.”

Harry smiled. “Okay.”

Tom hovered for another second, and Harry got the impression that they were one impulse away from another, more overt gesture of affection. Harry slipped out from underneath his blanket and scooted to the edge of the bed so he could wrap both arms around Tom’s waist.

“Thank you for being patient with me,” Harry said, pressing the side of his face against Tom’s torso.

Tom made a quiet noise in response. His hand came to rest upon Harry’s head, his fingers burying themselves in the tangle of curls there, stroking slowly. It felt nice; it always did.

Harry sighed a little. He knew this momentary peace would not last, no matter how hard he fought to keep it. All Harry could hold onto was the hope that no solution would be found.

Only then would Tom be forced to surrender him into Death’s waiting arms.

* * *

Just before the end of July, Tom took them home.

Harry went willingly. Part of him was glad for the familiarity of their manor, of his room and its decor. For the welcome sight of the well-kept grounds that he had once loved to walk when he had the time.

The high arc of the entrance hall stretched over their heads, leading down to where the staircase and the sitting room existed.

Tom’s arm was firm around Harry’s waist as they stepped inside. Harry glanced around at the coat rack and decorative paintings, which were clean and dust-free, just as he and Tom had left them. 

“Welcome home,” Harry said. His voice echoed like a phantom gasp in the large, empty space of the hall.

“Welcome home, Harry,” Tom murmured in return.

Harry twisted around so he could gaze at Tom’s face. “Do you have work to do?” he asked.

Tom paused, clearly deciding how much he wanted to say. “Nothing that cannot wait.” 

Harry didn’t believe that. Tom had claimed that they needed to return for Ministry business. There was little that could call Tom back to Britain with such urgency.

“Alright,” Harry said. If Tom wanted to keep him company, then that was fine.

The rest of their evening passed quietly. Tom made no mention of why they had returned, and Harry did not ask.

* * *

Living in the manor did not alleviate Harry’s poor mood. If anything, the reminder of how easily things could revert to normal made him feel worse. Harry caught himself gazing listlessly out the window, and sometimes Tom would be the one reaching into his sphere of melancholy and dragging him back to reality.

While Tom busy was at the Ministry, Harry sulked around the manor, avoiding those who wanted to see him. Weeks passed with Harry making repeated excuses to his friends. Harry knew if he saw them, if he was to be confronted with how they looked—older and grey-haired in a way he would never accomplish—he would spiral further.

It was not a sustainable way of life, and therefore Harry was not surprised when Tom came to corner him about it.

“You’re upset.”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “I’m upset.”

They were at an impasse. Harry was tired of fighting, and Tom was unwilling to give in. If Tom did not want to talk about it, then Harry had little to say to him.

Tom’s jaw flexed, his eyes flashing in anger, but Harry felt no fear at the sight.

Tom would not hurt him.

“You once said that all lives were worth saving,” Tom said in an even tone. “Does this not apply to yourself?”

Tom still did not understand. Harry shook his head. “That is not what this is. I don’t need _saving_.”

“Someone must save you from yourself,” Tom said harshly, striding forward and seizing Harry by the arm. “You value yourself too little. If you saw yourself as I do, then you would not be so eager to depart from this world.”

Harry shook his head again, more vigorously this time. He did not pull his arm away from Tom’s severe grip. “I see myself perfectly fine, thank you. I know what I want, and you aren’t willing to give it to me.”

Tom inhaled a ragged breath, nostrils flaring, eyes aflame. His hold on Harry’s arm loosened, then fell away entirely. 

“You want to die,” said Tom.

Harry met Tom’s gaze evenly, an unexpected serenity flooding into his veins.

“I want the choice.”

* * *

Tom did not speak to him for days.

Harry was torn between feeling grateful for the respite and feeling hurt by the distance. He couldn’t bring himself to hate Tom for it, either. He couldn’t hate Tom for any of it.

How could you hate someone who only wanted you to stay with them?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was originally gonna be longer, but i have benevolently decided to move the suffering to the next chapter, thereby also extending the chapter count by one (who woulda thunk it?). 
> 
> the next chapter is already half-written, i should think. i hope to post it soon. 
> 
> enjoy your brief respite from the inevitable end while it lasts! :)
> 
> in the meantime, check out the crack fic inspired by this one [here,](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24068905) which takes place during harry's first wizengamot session 🤔


	33. Devotion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I want you,” Tom murmured, “as you are. As yourself. I want you to be content with your life, satisfied with what I provide for you. Life is a gift, Harry. My eternal gift to you. I only wish for you to enjoy it.”

The cold shoulder came to an end when Tom asked Harry to meet him in his office. Their office.

It was July thirty-first. Harry’s birthday.

Harry followed Tom into the room, fearful. Had Tom at last uncovered the shield against Death he so dearly desired?

The room was the same as they’d left it, save for the fact that Tom’s desk was once again covered in documents, and Harry’s desk was bare save for a medium-sized wooden box. The box was dark, polished walnut, gleaming incessantly, the likely result of magic. Harry felt his lungs seize, straining, his breath stuttering.

Tom swept closer immediately, placing a cool hand on the nape of Harry’s neck, stroking down the spine. “This is a _gift,_ ” Tom murmured, the words dripping like warm honey. “For you. For your birthday.”

This comment was not helpful; Tom’s idea of gifts ranged from horribly expensive to terribly misguided. But if it was a gift, it would not be immortality. Harry had made his stance on that subject clear enough; it would be pure insanity for Harry’s birthday gift to be an immortal life.

Harry cleared his throat, swallowing down his apprehension with great effort. “What is it?”

“Open it and see.”

Harry forced his feet to carry him forwards. He placed two hands on the box, feeling the solid construction of the container, and held it up. There was a silver latch on the front, already unlocked. Harry lifted the lid with care, aware of how Tom’s eyes traced his every motion.

Inside the box lay a number of items cushioned in rich, black velvet.

A journal, a tiara, a cup. The locket once bargained with by Remus, and the heirloom ring which Tom usually wore on his left hand.

All in all, a collection of trophies from Tom’s past. Items of magical power and significance. Horcruxes.

Harry had never thought to ask about Tom’s other Horcruxes. He’d assumed they were hidden away somewhere, protected by wards and traps.

“When did you have time to gather these?” Harry asked.

“Some time ago.”

Harry bit down on his lower lip and set the box back down on the table. 

“I appreciate that you trust me with this,” Harry said.

Tom’s arm came to wrap around him. His hand settled on Harry’s shoulder, the fingers gripping gently. Harry felt Tom’s lips press into his hair for a brief second, and then Tom said, “These are for you, Harry. My Horcruxes. Your life may rest in my hands, but now my life is also in yours.”

This was almost a kindness. The intention was certainly there. Only… only it still was not right.

“I don’t know what to say to this,” Harry said honestly. “Tom… I—I don’t know what I’d do with these.”

Tom hummed, a low vibration that Harry could feel against the side of his head. Then Tom’s fingers stretched out, like pale beams of moonlight, stroking down where Harry’s collarbone lay underneath the fabric of his jumper. “You should wear the locket. The ring.”

Harry went numb. He recognized the monumental meaning of this gesture. The balance of what Tom was trying to give him. And it floored Harry that Tom trusted him enough to place the anchors of his immortality into his hands, but...

“This is too much,” Harry said. “I can’t accept this.”

Tom’s breath stilled for a beat, then resumed its slow, rhythmic cadence. “It would not make for an impressive gift if it was easily given,” Tom drawled.

Harry shut the lid of the box and closed the silver latch with a soft click.

“I know you want to keep me with you,” Harry said. “And I promised I would stay. You don’t… you don’t need to try to convince me to keep my promise, Tom.”

There was another pause, and then Tom spun Harry around so that they were facing each other. “I want you,” Tom murmured, “as you are. As yourself. I want you to be content with your life, satisfied with what I provide for you. Life is a _gift,_ Harry. My eternal gift to you. I only wish for you to enjoy it.”

Life was no gift, not for Harry. How could it be?

“I can’t give that to you,” Harry said, voice high and breaking. “You know I can’t. This isn’t like—it’s not a _bargain,_ it’s not something I can just _give_ you—”

“You fear living,” Tom said tenderly. “I can help you with this.”

“No, no!” Harry shook his head, wrenched himself from Tom’s grasp. “That’s not it! You won’t change my mind on this. You can keep me with you as long as you want. Use whatever threats you want. But I _don’t want this._ You’re the one afraid of death, Tom, not me.”

Tom’s countenance turned stormy, his visage glazed over with fury. Harry found himself shoved up against the desk, the edge pressed uncomfortably against his lower back as Tom bore down on him like a vengeful god.

“What do you need? What am I missing?” Tom said sharply, his anger burning dangerously with each word he spoke, cutting and deadly. “I’ve given you everything you could ever ask for. I’ve let you teach, let you travel. I let you have your friends, I keep them protected under my reign.

“What am I to assume, dear Harry? That I may keep you with me, but only as you curse every second of life I have granted you? You claim to care, yet you shun my gifts and my presence. I need _you_ beside me, nothing less than all that you are, and to deprive me of this is to spurn every promise you have ever given me.”

Harry’s spine curved backwards, a futile attempt to escape the fervor in Tom’s scarlet eyes. This was madness. This was all madness. While Harry had known there was a measure of power he held over Tom, he had never imagined Tom to be so affected by what he said and did.

“You are my eternal companion,” Tom breathed, the flow of speech now honeyed, sugar sweet, the harshness of his expression slipping away as he reached for Harry’s hands, clasping them in his own. “Do you see this as I do? You belong by my side, Harry. I will cherish you and value you more than any other.”

This statement was delivered with such sincerity that a switch must have flipped, for Tom’s entire demeanour had shifted from depravity to attentiveness in the span of a half second. Tom was impassioned, intent, his mouth curled into the slightest of pouts as his eyes pleaded for Harry to acquiesce, to understand. 

To submit.

Harry’s heart was aflame. The compassion he felt for Tom Riddle had swelled impossibly large over the decades. Tom hung over every decision that Harry made. Thoughts of Tom preceded his actions, clouded his judgements. 

Where did the man named Harry Potter end? Where did the man Tom had claimed as his perfect companion begin?

Harry was soaked to the bone; Tom permeated every part of him, drowning him in the tattered remains of an old, long-forgotten prophecy.

Tom lived in his very fucking soul. 

They were inseparable in every aspect; Harry could not begin to unearth all the ties that bound them together. They could not live without each other. They could not _live—_

Harry did not dare think it, or speak of it, but on some level he knew he had succeeded in what Albus Dumbledore would have called an impossible task: 

He had taught the Dark Lord to love.

And this love, in all of its harrowing, misshapen glory, meant that Tom was never going to let him go.

“You want me with you because you care,” Harry said, his breaths wretched with dejection. “You care so much that it kills you inside. That it burns. That is what I feel when I think of living forever. _That_ is what I fear.”

“And what of what I fear?” Tom demanded, chin lifted arrogantly so that a lock of hair fell across his forehead, shadowing the pale skin beneath it. “I fear losing _you,_ Harry.” 

Tom released Harry’s hands, instead caressing his palm against Harry’s cheek as he murmured, “There, I have finally said it. I do fear that I will lose you to Death’s damnable clutches. Will you still see me delivered into the endless torment of your absence?”

Harry’s eyes began to water, thought it was by no conscious decision on his part. He understood, painfully well, what Tom was saying. Harry could feel that very torment, that terrible ache, whenever he was reminded that the people he cared for would someday depart this world. That they would depart without him.

Harry would outlive them all by decades, if not more. The idiosyncrasies that made these people distinct and real in his mind would slip and fade away. Harry couldn’t stand to lose that.

Tom thumbed at Harry’s cheek with a soft touch, his brow furrowing in distress. “Tell me how to help you,” Tom whispered. “How can I make you see?”

Harry was shaking his head, twisting his face away before Tom had even finished speaking. Tom was the one who didn’t understand just how terrible eternity could be.

“I _do_ know what you mean,” Harry told him. “That’s what I’m afraid of, do you understand? Of losing everyone around me. Of losing people again and again. Of forgetting what it means to really love someone.”

Harry had to pause, then, because it was difficult to speak around the obstruction of his turbulent emotions. He placed his hand cautiously against Tom’s chest, willing Tom to realize the truth.

“I can’t live only for you, Tom. No matter how much you may want me to. No matter how much I want to be _able_ to. I’ll never be happy the way you want me to be.”

Harry had already lost too much to the vicious cruelty of war, to the inescapable progression of time. The sweet promise of departure was calling to him, the unyielding belief that he would be reunited with the people he loved.

“If you want to help me, then you have to be willing to let me go.”

Harry searched Tom’s face for acknowledgment, for consent, but Tom’s expression gave nothing away—

“No.”

Though Harry had expected the answer, it did not hurt any less, and it did not serve to soothe the ragged edges of the gaping hole in his chest. 

The suffocating dread inside of him twisted, paralyzed and insensate, and Harry felt himself deflate, shying away from Tom’s touch, sinking inwards in the habitual way he had developed to protect himself from mental anguish. 

Tom’s impassive mask gave way yet again, shuttering over with concern, the slightest grip of panic visible in his eyes.

“Harry,” said Tom. A plea, though Harry did not know for what.

Harry could not. 

He could not.

He—

“Not you,” Tom said. “Harry, you _promised_ me.”

Tom clutched at Harry’s arms, shaking him once, twice, like sense would suddenly restore itself, like Harry would give in spite of having already given so much.

Harry held himself limply, kept his eyes open, distant, and let Tom have his way.

They went still for a moment, a panoramic portrait of a lover’s embrace as Tom stared, nearly hysterical, into Harry’s eyes, and Harry felt his Occlumency shields fall away, the mental constructs dropping and shattering like fragile glass, exposing even the most hidden depths of his mind.

_Do you see me?_ Harry wanted to ask. _Do you know me? Am I real to you?_

Tom dove in, recklessly so, pouring into every crevice of Harry’s open mind, filling all the cracks, desperate, searching—

And Harry could only feel relief at this, at the familiarity of having Tom thinking for him, _feeling_ for him. Harry had always felt too much, enough for the both of them, and to have the overwhelming sensations lessened to a dull ache was nothing short of absolute nirvana.

Tom’s forehead pressed to his, the distance narrowing so that they were breathing the same air, thinking the same thoughts, hearts beating in time—so close, too close, not close enough.

Harry needed to reach deep down and yank out the parts of himself that burned. He had to put them on display so that Tom could see them.

_I’m here. I see you._

A shiver ran through him. It might even be his soul that had quivered from the force of those words.

Somehow, they ended up upon the floor, kneeling, brows touching, eyes locked. Tom’s hands rested on his forearms, lightly, like Harry was composed of bone china, warm-hued and breakable. Harry allowed the peace to wash over him, the mellow calm that came from hollowing his head and filling it with Tom.

Tom’s consciousness welcomed him with open arms, and then the heavy whirl of Harry’s mind flooded through their connection like a thunderstorm, a bedlam of every terrified thought Harry had ever conceptualized.

Tom recoiled.

The whiplash was sudden and unforgiving; Harry was wrenched forward, dragged across the subliminal space between them, tearing past walls that should have been there, should have stopped him—

Tom’s head snapped back, eyes flashing green.

The connection broke.

Harry heard rather than felt his breath escape him, an uneven gasp that swelled to fill the entire study, echoing faintly off of the dark walls. 

His body was too warm. It felt like he would explode from the sudden, searing heat, his face feverish and sweaty as he slumped against Tom’s chest and shoulder. Tom carried him through the shudders that slid down his spine, soothed the tremors in Harry’s hands as he brushed lips over each knuckle in turn.

It was only after some time had passed that Harry was able to blink open his eyes, dispelling the wetness that clung to his lashes, and look up at Tom.

Tom was unusually somber, what little colour that usually resided in his cheeks now absent, his mouth tight-lipped as he stroked a hand over Harry’s head. Parts of his face shone oddly in the dim candlelight of the office.

Awkwardly, Harry realized that the shine was not a trick of the light at all, but rather the result of faded tear tracks that had trailed down, past Tom’s cheekbones, to cradle the jaw.

Transfixed by the sight, Harry lifted a finger to touch, to test, swiping across the remains of moisture there. Tom twitched at the contact but did not pull away, merely watched as Harry’s hand withdrew, his curiosity sated.

Harry coughed softly, cleared his throat to speak.

“Do you understand?” he asked.

Tom’s embrace curved inwards, enveloping Harry further into the folds of his robes. Harry shifted, uneasy, then felt a puff of warm breath pass across his skin as Tom replied,

“I will try.”

* * *

In the early days, when Voldemort had held court in the large meeting rooms on the ground level of the manor, Harry had been confined to the left wing, sequestered in his room unless Voldemort wanted to see him. 

Other than that, the manor had always been quiet, silent save for the occasional disturbance of House-Elf magic. Harry had grown used to the empty corridors, to the unused chambers. To the home that revolved around a single person and a few choice rooms.

So it was no wonder that when Tom kept his distance, the manor felt otherworldly, more haunted than usual. This distance was not like the cold shoulder from before, however. Harry got the impression that Tom was not staying away to punish him, but rather to have the space needed to think through things properly.

It was with this in mind that Harry spent his time exploring the manor while Tom went about his Ministry work. 

The basement floor was now completely sealed off, the door locked and warded. A section of the past that Harry would never see again. An element of the Dark Lord which had been laid to rest, Harry thought. Or was that only wishful thinking?

The unoccupied rooms in the manor were barely furnished, their curtains drawn shut. Harry would sit in these rooms, just so they could be put to use. He would read books or listen to the magical wireless. Sometimes he would fall asleep and wake to a blanket draped over him. Harry did not think that the blanket was the work of House-Elves.

His previous conversation with Tom was not forgotten; the chest of Horcruxes sat in Harry’s room, warded and protected in one of his desk drawers. Harry remained baffled by his gift. It was unthinkable that Tom would concentrate the power of his immortality in one place—in Harry’s hands. What had been the intention of that?

A sign of faith or devotion or—

Something else.

Harry had not thought of the word since his birthday. The enormity of it did not fit with what he had once known of Voldemort, of Tom Riddle. But even if Harry was only an obsession, a victim to Tom’s warped version of sentiment, this knowledge was a heavy, heady feeling. He and Tom had crept up on each other, stretching like vines, tangling together.

But Harry did not love him.

Harry might crave Tom’s company, might even love it, might long for the physical affection that Tom so easily offered. But it was not the same love that he felt for other people. For his parents, who had died for him. For his best friends, forever out of reach. It could not be the same feeling.

Tom was separate, distinct from everyone else. A category all on his own. Impossible and mercurial, intelligent and charming. If someone was to live forever, it only made sense for it to be Tom, who embodied the best and worst parts of humanity. The physical perfection, the intellectual acuity, the magical prowess—all of it contained in a vessel missing only one piece: a heart.

Harry tried to imagine the small portion of himself that must reside within Tom’s chest. The existence of more than darkness in that cavernous gap. The claims of love that Tom held dear.

Voldemort had cared for Nagini, had even mourned her. But the bond that lay between Harry and Tom must have surpassed that long ago, long before Tom had ever held him close and murmured soft promises into his ear.

Tom had said he would try, but that did that mean? Where did this new promise fit in the field of wild wishes that had lived between them?

Only time would tell. Time that could, ostensibly, stretch for years and years to come.

* * *

Harry woke in the middle of the night from dreams of fire and smoke, the invisible ashes burning in his lungs. Restless and unnerved, he forced himself out of bed so that he could pace his room, eyeing the streams of moonlight that slid through the gaps of his curtains.

Eventually the room felt stifling, and Harry moved out into the corridor and down the hall, his bare feet padding down the plush carpeting and carrying him to the one room he rarely visited.

The door was ajar, but Harry knocked softly anyways, trusting in Tom’s night owl tendencies.

“Come in, Harry.”

Harry crept around the door like a mouse, suddenly overwhelmed with the awkwardness of what he had done. It was some odd hour in the middle of the night, he was dressed only in pyjamas, and he had come knocking at the Dark Lord’s door.

Tom was clad in black silk, pyjamas in the same cut as Harry’s. A paired set, even though they never slept in the same room. Harry had originally thought the silk to be extravagant and unnecessary, but after some time he had come to agree that it was preferable, the fabric cooler and softer against the skin.

This room, the master bedroom, was everything one would have expected from the personal chambers of the Dark Lord. The window view was large, leading out to a beautiful curved balcony that Harry had only ever properly seen from the outside. The curtains were a dark forest green, tied off with silver rope.

The floors were a polished hardwood, dark brown mahogany covered partially by a long, rectangular mat where a pair of plain black slippers rested. And the bed, tall and wide in equal measures, was wrapped around by green hangings that matched the curtains. 

In Harry’s previous visits to this room those hangings had always been closed, but tonight they were open, revealing black silk sheets and clean white pillows.

“Did you need something?” Tom asked, his voice a low rumble, fogged with sleep.

“I woke up,” Harry said. 

It was a non-answer, but apparently it was satisfactory because Tom gestured for Harry to approach him.

Harry padded forwards. He felt like a child again, young and trembling, awoken by nightmares and seeking comfort.

Instead of pulling Harry close as he usually did, Tom resumed facing the window. Harry followed his gaze to the tall panels of glass that held back the warm summer air, shielding their eyes from the full intensity of the brilliant moon.

“You consume my thoughts,” Tom said solemnly, factually, the sudden statement startling in the silence of the bedroom. “You persist, like a plague, in every corner of my mind. I find I cannot rid myself of you, your words, your _feelings._ I had never imagined that I would seek to understand love, yet I seek to understand _you_ , and you confound me at every turn.”

Harry licked his lips, his throat dry. Did Tom expect him to respond to this?

“You have a heart that grows. A heart that bleeds.” Tom’s brow creased, almost as an afterthought, then flattened out again as Tom shifted to look at him. “Would you die for me, Harry? As you would for your family, your friends? If my life was at risk, in mortal peril, would you save me?”

Harry’s answer was instantaneous.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

Tom laughed. The sound was mocking, sharp like a bark. Harry shrunk away for a second, disturbed, before the meaning sunk in. The laugh was not intended to mock him; it was Tom’s self-directed derision that had prompted the sudden twist of black humour.

“You would die to save your immortal enemy. A man who has caused you enough misery to drown in.”

Harry shifted, uneasy. “Yes, I would.” 

Tom was as much of a person as anyone else. If Harry could intervene to save him, then it only made sense to do so. After all, Tom was the one who wanted to live. 

Harry would give his life for strangers, for people he’d met only in passing. He would give his life for Tom, who had grown into some measure of kindness, who had proven that light could shine even in the darkest of hearts if only someone was brave enough to try it.

“You are ridiculous,” Tom said flatly. “And I will never understand you, Harry Potter. Not even if you gave me all of eternity to do so.”

Harry blinked at the phrasing, at the hypothetical.

“I guess you won’t,” Harry said slowly, his tongue dragging on the words.

Tom’s eyes closed, then, the deep red irises vanishing behind ivory eyelids and dark lashes. “Do you hate me?”

Though Tom could not see, Harry shook his head. “No. I don’t think I do.”

Tom motioned with a hand for Harry to draw nearer. Harry shuffled over, obedient, invisible ties leading him towards the man who owned his life in all but name.

Once Harry was standing before him, Tom cradled Harry’s face in his hands, fingers smoothing delicate lines over Harry’s jaw and cheeks. The trails left behind were scorching, like a hot brand on Harry’s skin. 

“Harry,” said Tom, imploring, like a sigh that had been building for a millennia was at last being released. “You are as selfless as I am selfish. The true counterpart I had never known could exist. The beautiful heart that tempers my ruthless ambition.”

At this, Harry could feel the flutter of that very heart in his throat. He could feel the hum of tension that existed when they touched, and the pulse of Tom’s emotions, just beneath the surface, blazing so fiercely that the sensation was impossible for Harry to ignore.

“You have given yourself to me, promised to remain mine,” Tom breathed. His eyes flashed, the ruby red of adoration. “It would ruin me to give you away, my darling, my Harry. It would destroy the very heart which you have laboured so dearly to save.”

Harry’s hands clenched against the silken sleeves of Tom’s shirt as the words danced around them, curling in like talons, sharp points prickling on his skin all over. This was a confirmation of all that Harry had sought to avoid. His vision was consumed by Tom’s gaze, by those gleaming, volatile eyes that only made promises in absolutes. 

There were two concepts Harry had named as universal:

Love, eternal.

Death, inevitable.

Tom would have him promise eternity, forgoing his humanity in favour of a different, more potent devotion. Harry could see, very easily, the dream Tom wanted them to achieve together.

Tom’s hand slid down his neck, fingertips dragging over his throat with gentle pressure, solidifying Harry’s breath in place. “I want you to be happy,” Tom said at last, a whisper that dissipated in the darkness of the room. “Could you ever allow me that?” 

Harry had no response, but Tom must have seen something in his eyes, eyes wide and hopelessly green like his mother’s, because the familiar tension suddenly froze over, the surrounding air going cold.

Tom replaced the space between them, the void opening like a yawn, and Harry would have stumbled if not for Tom’s hands fastened to his forearms, pinning him to the floor like a statue.

Tom’s voice returned to a regular volume, the syllables rough around the edges as he said, “My office, tomorrow. Nine sharp. Do not be late.”

Was that a dismissal?

Tom stepped back. Harry’s head spun with disorientation as his support fell away, leaving him anchorless. He was struck by an urge to reach out as he watched Tom retreat to the balcony, shutting the door quietly behind him.

The sound of the door latch, magically shut, echoed thinly in the large bedroom.

Harry did not unstick his feet from the floor right away, did not move to leave Tom’s room and return to his own. He ought to—he ought to be upset. Or disgusted. Or anything other than filled with this helpless feeling of _abandonment_ as he eyed Tom’s silhouette through the balcony windows.

After a time, Harry returned to his room.

When he slept, his dreams were of the forest, damp and earthy, strewn through with vibrant, blooming flowers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter count is officially final. the rest of the story is written and will be posted shortly. i am currently editing through the older chapters of this story, and hopefully it will all be completed by the time i finally post the epilogue.
> 
> comments on this chapter are highly welcomed and appreciated!


	34. Vow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One final journey. One final vow. 
> 
> The vow Harry had made on bended knee, swearing that he would remain by Tom’s side for as long as he lived. A vow that had come from the heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here we see the reason for tom and harry’s abrupt return to britain, as well as the conclusion of character development over 110k words in the making. 😔❤️
> 
> edit 5/29/20: updated this chapter with additional content.

Outside there was less reprieve from the summer heat. But the balcony rail was cool marble beneath his fingertips as he dragged a slow hand across the surface. He could sense that Harry had just departed the room. He was as attuned to Harry’s presence as he was to the wards of his own manor. 

When Harry was near, he knew. And when Harry was gone…

Tom Riddle turned his face to the skies above.

He did not believe in prophecy. His life was built around self-determination. Fate could not be bribed or coerced or threatened—it could only be conquered.

Or so he had thought.

So he had sought to accomplish.

Only now, thinking back on that first night, when Harry Potter had been delivered and deposited at his feet, did he acknowledge how foolish he had been.

Age brought wisdom, and this was true. But age also brought _time,_ and with time came new understanding of the world around him, of the heart he had sought to own.

If Harry _died—_

If Harry died. Then what? What would become of this empire he had constructed for himself, for them both?

His eyes fell shut, blocking out what little illumination the stars and moon provided.

If Harry died, what would he do?

He would stop it from happening. He would claw Harry back from Death’s clutches at any cost. The laws of the universe would crumble under his power, his will. He had already achieved his own immortality, and to secure Harry’s had not been as difficult as he’d originally feared.

Decades of research and labour had culminated in success: three solutions to his hellish dilemma.

A weapon, a shield, and a stone.

_A weapon to defeat Death_ —the use of murder to create a Horcrux. Though Voldemort would have named it an impossibility, the Horcrux from Harry _could_ be removed, given the correct frame of mind. Remorse could be called upon in this instance, for Dumbledore’s death had caused Harry much harm and distress, harm that haunted to this day.

Following the removal of the Dark Lord’s Horcrux, Harry could create his own. 

But Harry would never raise his wand against another, not to murder in cold blood, and that made this solution unsavoury at best.

_A shield to evade Death_ —a ritual that would drench the body in powerful magic, trapping the soul inside even after the decay of the physical form. 

From there, the soul (and its attached Horcrux) could be transferred to any other container. Another body, if one was prepared sufficiently in advance. It would be simple from there to imbue the new body with magic to keep the soul properly alive; a few sacrifices to give the form power, and it would be practically indistinguishable from its original.

_A stone to cheat Death_ —the infamous Philosopher’s Stone created by Nicholas Flamel. A secret lost to time and mystery. The completed alchemical substance that would grant eternal life through the consumption of its Elixir. 

The creation of the stone was a work in progress, a project run in the Department of Mysteries. News of a minor breakthrough there was what had driven him to take Harry back to Britain. 

Given enough time, the puzzle of the Stone would be solved. The Elixir would extend Harry’s life long enough to find a stable, permanent solution. Beyond that, there were other benefits to this alternative.

With the Stone, all those Harry loved could be saved if so he wished. 

This would provide an incentive for Harry to stay. A solution to the pain of loss that Harry feared. The pain that he had witnessed in Harry’s mind, vivid and feral, worse than the Cruciatus, worse than the torture of creating a Horcrux.

It was unfathomable. How Harry could feel such loss so keenly, so _deeply?_

If Harry died, if Harry left him—that would be his fate. To suffer that agony for all eternity. He was more certain of this than ever.

Their relationship had originally centered around bargains, around promises from Harry. Promises of loyalty, of faith. Of trust and absolution.

But between them, there had only been one promise of the heart.

_You would try to_ save _me?_

_I_ am _trying._

Tom opened his eyes. The sun was now creeping up along the horizon. It was not visible through the border of trees surrounding the manor, but the sky was tinted with the telltale signs of sunrise.

There were three options.

> 1) Present Harry with the first two options. Harry would choose the second of the two, likely, and in that case he could age his appearance the way he liked, and so he would no longer appear eternally youthful. Harry would disapprove of the sacrificial aspect, especially as the process would be repeated again in another three centuries, but it was the safest option in that it could be managed without external reliance.
> 
> 2) Convince Harry to accept the third option as a compromise, sharing the secret of immortality with others in order to keep Harry surrounded by his friends and family. Surrounded by reasons to live. This would also serve to buffer the dwindling Pureblood population, an issue which had become more prominent over the past decade.

Hands braced firmly on the balcony rail, the Dark Lord exhaled a soft sigh.

Then, the final option:

> 3) Relinquish the choice entirely.

This thought had chased him across continents, across decades. It lived in his dreams and died in his nightmares, nightmares where Harry’s corpse, monochrome and lifeless, nothing more than a spectre, pointed the finger of blame at him.

His Harry had asked to be set free, to be given over to Death’s hands when the time came.

There was every reason in the world to refuse. All parts of him screamed in accordance that _Harry must not die._ He needed Harry here with him, fulfilling the empty ache in his life that must have existed for years prior to the utterance of any prophecy. 

To fail in this was a blow to his pride. A rejection of the only other desire he had known since he’d first coveted an eternal life.

To fail was to renounce the very core of who he was.

If Harry died, _that_ would be his failure.

It would ruin him, as he had said. It would crush the heart that had only begun to feel, to appreciate the truth of what it meant to love.

But to do the opposite, to deny Harry what he so dearly wished?

That would kill his love in another way.

He could not bear to see the light in those eyes fade to a distant dullness, to never hear the joy of Harry’s laugh again, to bear witness to the death of everything that made Harry who he was.

And so, in the end, there was no choice.

There was one path left to him, a path dictated by that which he had sworn to never abide by.

If they had been destined to find themselves here, wrapped up in each other, souls woven like the threads of fate, then this choice, too, was a result of predetermination.

If he would fall to ruin either way, then he would choose with his heart.

* * *

Harry was willing to die for Tom Riddle.

This fact, a result of the connection between them, was special.

Harry had walked with the Dark Lord for three decades, and had gazed, undeterred, into the darkness. During that time, their relationship had altered irreversibly.

Voldemort had sought to bind Harry to him. Harry had traded away pieces of himself, mind and body and soul, in exchange for protection and clemency granted to innocents. But even though Harry had given up so much of himself, his ability to care had never wavered.

The heart was not something that could be taken. The heart could only be given.

After the death of Nagini, the dynamic between him and Voldemort had shifted. The possibility of Harry’s death had become real to them both in a way it never had before. Thus began a journey that Harry could not have anticipated—a descent to a level of intimacy that was strange and frightening to them both. 

One final journey. One final vow.

The vow Harry had made on bended knee, swearing that he would remain by Tom’s side for as long as he lived. A vow that had come from the heart.

If Tom held him to this promise, Harry would not protest. He would permit Tom to keep him. But he would be miserable, hating every second of it, his sense of self withering and wasting away.

Would they survive that? _Could_ they survive it?

Harry had no insight on this.

There was no prophecy to guide them here. There was no hope of future answers. Harry had placed his faith in Tom, and so there was only the certainty of Tom’s will, indomitable and immovable. The final enemy of Death.

* * *

Harry rose shortly after dawn, too nervous to fall back asleep. Last night’s revelations had kept his mind preoccupied for most of the evening, ruining any chance of a full night’s rest. The few hours he had managed were fleeting, snatches of restfulness that slipped away whenever he attempted to draw upon them for strength.

After twenty minutes of his usual, bleary-eyed morning routine, Harry was half-dressed and staring at himself in the mirror, white collared shirt draped over his arm. The scars on his chest appeared pink and irritated; they would never fade to the silver-purple of other curse scars.

Harry traced over the shape with his index finger. There was no pain, no phantom twinge. He could almost forget when and how he had gotten this scar. This permanent reminder of who, exactly, his life belonged to.

Harry pulled his shirt on, did up the buttons, and smoothed the fabric across his chest until it was wrinkle free. Then he tucked the tails in, methodically working his way around until everything was perfect, picturesque.

Turning his attention to his hair, Harry summoned his comb from across the bathroom and ran it through a few times, just to ease any tangles.

Grooming complete, Harry set the comb down on the counter, leaving it there, and departed his room for the office downstairs. The weather was warm enough that there was no need for robes, and a jacket would have only been another layer for him to sweat through.

Harry took his time walking. It was early, not even seven yet, and Tom had asked for nine sharp. No doubt the office would be empty at this hour. If Tom _was_ there, it was likely that he would be busy with another task. Then Harry would have to wait and watch as Tom went about his Ministerial duties.

Truthfully, sometimes Harry missed working at the Ministry.

Harry had originally exchanged his influence at the Ministry for a professorship at Hogwarts, a decision he did not regret making in the slightest. But eventually that, too, had grown difficult for him. His students had aged into fully-grown adults, had become parents with children, achieving milestones that he would never manage.

It had become clear that no matter where Harry worked, it would involve caring too much, investing himself in ways that would inevitably end up being painful.

Life would lose its meaning, the days washing away with the eternal tides and the repeated setting of the sun. Love would numb with time, wounds opened and opened again, all of it scarred over until it was barely recognizable. And during all this, Harry would lose his humanity, the joys of living soured by the anguish of loss.

During the war, Harry had been most fearful of losing his loved ones. He knew very well how time could be cut short, how regret could fill a heart with pain worse than any physical torture. Some losses would always hurt, regardless of how much time passed. 

Harry could only imagine how visceral this fear was for Tom, who had chosen only one person to care for.

Giving up Ron and Hermione had truly been the most agonizing decision of Harry’s life. But he had made that decision out of love, and his friends were better off for it. They were safe and happy, which was more than he ever could have dreamed possible for them.

Pausing in his thoughts, Harry came to a halt in the corridor.

The door to Tom’s office was open. Harry raised a hand and knocked. This action reminded him of last night, of Tom’s declaration of devotion and affection.

The door swung wide, inviting him in. Harry grasped firmly at his confidence and stepped forward.

“You’re early,” Tom said from behind his desk. With a casual gesture, Tom wandlessly waved over a chair and set it infront of him. “Did you wish to sit down?”

“Should I be sitting down for this?” Harry asked, then winced at the bluntness of his own question.

Tom gave no sign of apprehension, but he did hesitate before speaking. “I think it may be easier if you are.”

Harry sat down.

Tom opened a drawer, retrieving three parchment scrolls from it. Each scroll was tied off with a strand of black ribbon, signifying its importance as a personal document of the Minister for Magic. Tom raised a brow, offering the scrolls out.

Harry took them, cautious, and set them down upon the desk. “What are these?”

“They are yours.”

Another gift? Anxious, Harry chose a scroll at random, untied it, unfurled it, and began to read.

He only managed the first paragraph before the meaning sunk in, and then he was reaching for the second scroll, discarding its ribbon and unravelling its contents.

His eyes scanned the words, unseeing, the concepts trickling into reality. 

Immortality. Eternal life. The destruction of Death.

Harry did not pick up the third scroll. Instead he placed his hands on the desk, watched with a detached fascination as his fingers trembled as he attempted to throttle his panic.

Tom’s hand, steady and larger than Harry’s, covered Harry’s hands like a blanket.

“Only two of the options are wholly viable at the present moment,” Tom said calmly, as though he had not just delivered the antithesis of a death sentence. “The third may take some time yet, but it has potential for mass production. The choice is yours.”

Harry’s next breath passed with a wheeze, high and strangled, his view of the room rapidly deteriorating as everything faded to white noise, to the violent static of terror.

“Harry? Harry, _breathe._ ” Tom’s voice, urgent, stripped of composure, was very far away.

There was a scraping sound as Harry’s chair dragged backwards, and then Tom was in front of him, holding him, cupping his cheek with a worried touch. 

Harry choked on his fear, dry heaved a gasp, flooding the air with hysteria.

Tom’s eyes were wide and distracted, scanning Harry’s face for invisible injuries. “Harry—”

Harry tried to speak, his mouth moving, soundless air passing through his lips.

“Harry, please, calm down. It’s not what you think—it’s not—I’m offering you _a choice._ ”

The world went still. 

Harry focused on Tom, whose deep red eyes were distraught with concern, his expression pained. Tom was kneeling on the ground, his hands now clasped atop Harry’s knee.

Tom’s next words were slow, agonized.

“I will not keep you here with me if it will make you unhappy. I will respect your wishes, Harry, even as the mere thought of it wounds me beyond measure. If this is what you want, truly, then I swear I will find the means to let you go.”

* * *

Harry had been born into a war, had been raised in the midst of it. He had been taught to value what limited time he had, to cherish the present moment above all else. There was little reason to linger; dwelling on the past brought pain. There was only the end to look forward to, a release from the burdens of life, a release from grief.

Everything in Harry’s life was transitory, one event to the next—a slow funeral march.

It was why Harry had never cared much for having possessions. There were few items he genuinely valued. His father’s cloak, his trusty broomstick, his holly and phoenix feather wand. The photo album his parents had left behind. The baby blanket that he’d grown up with. Practical items, items with sentiment attached. 

Tom enjoyed spoiling him, but Harry asked for little. It was a habit carried over from ten years of expecting to die. His life was temporary, and therefore he had no need for excess. It felt wasteful to spend money on extravagance he would not keep with him when he passed on. 

Nothing was built to last. Not Rome, not Voldemort’s reign. Not him.

* * *

“Harry?” Tom asked. His voice was threaded with apprehension.

Harry took a moment to come back to himself, to reacquaint his body with the rhythm of his breathing, the subtle pulse of his heart. “I—I’m fine. I’m okay.”

Tom scoffed, but the noise was mild. He did pull back, however, balancing himself against the side of the desk while he regarded Harry with a rapt expression.

“Thank you,” Harry said. The statement sounded odd, not quite devoid of inflection, so Harry tried again and said, “Thank you, Tom.”

Tom smiled, wan, and reached out. 

Harry offered his hands, palms up, and let Tom pull him to his feet. 

Tom was telling the truth. He had to be. Tom would not lie, not about this, _never_ this.

Harry slipped his arms around Tom’s waist, inhaling the reassuring top notes of soap and aftershave that masked the natural, familiar scents that lay underneath.

Tom held him closer. Harry settled his head upon Tom’s shoulder and savoured in the feeling, in the relief now pervading every cell of his body.

“Is this enough, then?” Tom asked quietly, uncomfortably.

Harry shifted, lifting his head. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

Tom adjusted his hold, his thumbs brushing across the width of Harry’s forearms. “You will live much longer than an average wizard.”

Harry mulled that over for a moment. The vastness of eternity was now condensed to a matter of centuries. Three hundred years or so, and then his time on earth would be complete.

“It’s alright,” Harry said softly. “This already means… means a lot to me. It means so much.” His cheeks warmed, shyness burning inside of him as he added, “I’m very happy. I’m really, really happy you’re letting me choose.”

Harry tilted back so he could stare up at Tom’s face, to make sure that Tom knew he was grateful.

Tom smiled again, charming and bright, a flash of white teeth. The politician’s smile. Harry could tell that it wasn’t wholly genuine.

“I’m sorry,” Harry said, contrite. “I know this is hard for you. Is there… is there anything I can do to make it easier?”

Tom wavered, his hands going still, his expression once again impassive as Harry waited for him to speak. Then Harry felt a cool touch to his forehead that traced over his lightning scar. 

“I’m releasing you from your promise,” Tom said. “You no longer owe me anything.”

“I know,” Harry said. 

Tom loved him. If he never said so, Harry would know it regardless. 

“I know,” Harry repeated. A new vow. A new promise. His heart in his hands, open and trusting. “But I’m offering anyway.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as we approach the end, i'd like to list a few acknowledgements:
> 
> to waitingondaisies, who has been my long-suffering sounding board. thank you for embarking on this journey with me. this story would never have been the epic it has turned out to be without you.
> 
> to minryll, whose essay-length comment prompted what i highly believe to be one of the best chapters in this story. thank you for your insight and the inspiration you provide.
> 
> to my regular commenters (and my lovely discord readers), you make writing this story worthwhile. it would not have been nearly as long without your support and encouragement. thank you for your time and your kind words.
> 
> and to everyone who has read this story, i thank you for deciding to click on 'til death do us part' and follow through to the bitter end.
> 
> the epilogue is next: three hundred years later, from scorpius malfoy's pov. i'll save my personal thoughts on the story for that chapter. thank you all!


	35. Epilogue: Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Passing into the graveyard, Scorpius took a moment to compose himself. He had been the Minister for Magic for only eight years, and this would be the first time he undertook this trip on his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you’re interested in a soundtrack for this chapter, i recommend [flickers by wrabel.](https://youtu.be/ID63qqeO0f0)
> 
> otherwise, as you were. enjoy the chapter!

_“Do not pity the dead, Harry. Pity the living, and, above all, those who live without love.”_

— Albus Dumbledore, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.

* * *

_**Three Hundred Years Later** _  
  
  


King’s Cross Station was unreasonably crowded for the early hour. Scorpius held tight to little Meissa’s hand as he scanned the crowds of Muggles and magicals alike. Her parents were just behind him, murmuring quietly to each other. Meissa’s birth mother, Malika, was only a Malfoy by marriage, but she was a Malfoy nonetheless.

It was tradition for Scorpius, as head of the family, to accompany each child to the Hogwarts Express for the first time. It was a tradition that had begun with his own firstborn, Lyra, and his father, Draco.

Both Lyra and his father were now long gone, but Scorpius remembered them fondly and revisited his Pensieve memories of them often.

With the subtle application of wandless magic, Scorpius repelled the crowd of Muggles, parting an easy path for him and his family. In short order, they approached the barrier that led to Platform 9 and 3/4.

“Are you ready, little one?” Scorpius asked, glancing down at his small companion. He had not done this for all the Malfoy children, but Meissa was a self-admitted favourite of his.

Meissa bobbed her head, grinning with a wide smile that revealed her missing front tooth.

Hands held, they ran through the wall.

This side was just as busy as the Muggle side. Scorpius recognized many familiar faces as he and Meissa moved aside to allow her parents entrance. Malika and her wife came to put their arms around their daughter; Scorpius gave Meissa’s shoulder a squeeze before he pulled away.

Amongst this crowd, there was no need to use magic. People were very willing to move aside for the Minister of Magic. Scorpius greeted a few families here and there, hand shaking and reacquainting himself with old friends. 

Behind him, Meissa and her parents followed at a more sedate pace, taking in the splendour of the Hogwarts Express. The train was just as beautiful as Scorpius remembered it to be on his first day of Hogwarts.

They came to a stop near where the luggage was being loaded onto the train.

Scorpius turned to face Meissa. She was the eldest daughter in her family. Her younger siblings, currently infants, would not come to Hogwarts for some time yet. 

Meissa was intelligent for her age, curious and spirited. Seven generations spanned between them, but Scorpius considered her to be as close to him as any other member of his family.

“I’m very proud of you,” Scorpius told her. “You were very brave to run through the barrier with me.”

“I’ll be Gryffindor, says mama,” Meissa said. “Do you think so, too? Mother told me you were a Slytherin. And it’s in my textbook.”

Scorpius smiled, indulgent. “Don’t mind about me, little one. If you go to Gryffindor, then Gryffindor will have gained an excellent student, don’t you think?”

Meissa beamed, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “Yes! I think I will be Gryffindor, then. Lions are very beautiful creatures.”

“Beautiful and brave,” Scorpius agreed. “The best man I’ve ever known was a Gryffindor.”

Meissa wrinkled her face, quirking her head to the side. “How can someone be the _best,_ Uncle Scorpius? Mama says that everyone is created equal, and that we should not compare ourselves to others.”

“By having a very big heart.” Scorpius touched his own chest to demonstrate. “Big enough to love many, many people.”

“Like you?” Meissa asked. “Because you love all of us?”

“I do. I love you all very much.” Scorpius knelt down and smoothed a hand over Meissa’s shoulder. “And should you ever need my help, you can always send me an owl.”

Meissa nodded, her expression now serious. “Mother got me an owl for Hogwarts. I’ve named her Hestia, after the ancient goddess.”

“Very good.” Scorpius held out his arms. “May I have a hug before I go?”

Meissa complied, wrapping her small arms around Scorpius’ neck, squeezing with all her might.

Scorpius laughed and patted her back. “I see you have the strength of a lioness already.”

Meissa giggled in response, kicking her feet up off the ground momentarily as she rested her weight on Scorpius’ capable shoulders.

“Come now, Meissa,” Malika said, gesturing for her daughter to withdraw. “Time to say goodbye! Your uncle has some very important business to attend to. Let’s go and find Clarice and her family.”

“Okay. Goodbye, Uncle Scorpius!”

Scorpius waved goodbye to the little family. He would have liked to stay longer, but he had an important appointment to make.

* * *

The squeeze of Apparition was uncomfortable as ever when Scorpius landed in Godric’s Hollow. 

After over three centuries, the act of disappearing and reappearing never failed to disorient him. Which was ridiculous, really, because he could fly perfectly well on a broomstick no matter the weather, yet something as simple as Apparition could throw him off balance.

Reaching into the largest pocket of his robes, Scorpius withdrew the fabled Cloak of Invisibility and donned it. He did not want to be followed now, and the Cloak would provide him the highest level of protection, superior to the most powerful charms and potions.

The ground at his feet was littered with leaves and twigs, autumn’s offerings scattered along the grass and pavement as Scorpius walked up to the tall metal gate.

Less people lived in this area now. Godric’s Hollow was mainly home to retirees who remained with their inherited properties. Most magical families had chosen new settlements for their homes, areas that were hidden away from Muggles. There were secret caches all over Britain that had been magically expanded to fit entire communities.

Passing into the graveyard, Scorpius took a moment to compose himself. He had been the Minister for Magic for only eight years, and this would be the first time he undertook this trip on his own.

His friend and mentor, Theodore Nott, had chosen to pass on three years ago. Scorpius felt that loss very keenly as he strode down the route that would take him to the Potter family graves.

This entire graveyard was well-kept, secretly preserved by magic. One person’s magic in particular.

Scorpius knew the story well. 

When Harry Potter had passed away from natural causes, Scorpius was sure their nation had never known such sorrow. Harry was the unrivaled counterpart to their Lord, a kind soul who had a smile for all and room in his heart for many.

When his Uncle Harry had died, Scorpius had known the world would never be the same again.

How could it, when the man that Scorpius had looked up to, had idolized as a role model alongside his own father, was gone?

But worse yet, the impact of Harry’s death on the one who led them all.

Harry had assisted the Dark Lord for centuries, long before the cure to death had been discovered in the Department of Mysteries. It was clear to Scorpius that Harry cared very deeply. There was a tenderness to the way Harry held himself around the Dark Lord, a fond exasperation that existed in those bright green eyes. 

The Dark lord was a private man, but when Harry was near him, his smile seemed lighter, more genuine. Softer, even.

Where the Dark Lord went, Harry would follow—perhaps mildly irritated, at times, but willing all the same.

From all the attention the Dark Lord gave him, one would have thought Harry Potter was the most captivating man in the world. Only Harry was allowed to interrupt, to talk back. Only Harry was permitted to stand near, to lay a gentle hand on the Dark Lord’s forearm.

It was no wonder that the Dark Lord had been by Harry’s side until the bitter end.

In the days following Harry’s death, Scorpius had expected harshness, cruelty, a callback to the stories of old that Theodore had impressed upon him. The true, bloody history of their peaceful nation. With a man as powerful as the Dark Lord, there could only be retribution. Scorpius had seen what terrible fates befell those who threatened Harry Potter.

Unfortunately, there had been no blame to point fingers at for Harry’s death. There had been no miracle moment when the Dark Lord convinced Harry to live on.

Scorpius had been so _sure_ that his beloved Uncle Harry would choose to stay. If not for Scorpius and his family, then for the Dark Lord, who loved Harry more dearly than anyone else.

But Harry _had_ chosen death, had greeted the end with a satisfied smile.

Scorpius had not understood.

Just before the funeral, Theodore had taken him aside and explained.

Long ago, before Scorpius had been born, there had been a prophecy. This prophecy, stricken from all Ministry records and erased from all history books, had spelled the fate of the Dark Lord and his consort, Harry Potter. 

  
  
  


_The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches…_

_born when the seventh month died, the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal…_

_he will defy the Dark Lord thrice, and he will become the Dark Lord’s greatest challenger…_

_he will live while the Dark Lord reigns, and the Dark Lord will rule as long as he survives…_

  
  
  


Theodore had explained how Harry and the Dark Lord began as enemies, had fought opposite each other in a war.

Harry had been taken captive during this war.

From there, the tale had spun on, with only the barest of glimpses into the private lives of the two most powerful men in the world, those two who had cracked the secret of the Elixir and eternal life. But the picture was whole: regardless of how far apart Harry and the Dark Lord had been at the start, they had ended up together.

Scorpius, who had only ever lived in a world of harmony, in a nation free from war, had difficulty with this concept. Harry had been a prisoner. How had he grown to love and forgive the man who had killed his parents?

Theodore had shaken his head. Relationships were rarely so simple, and the bond between the Dark Lord and Harry Potter was the most complex of them all.

Scorpius could only think of his own parents. How they looked at each other, love radiating in every direction. An expression of love that Scorpius could recall with great clarity, even now. Even though his parents had chosen to pass together many, many decades ago.

Harry and the Dark Lord had gazed upon each other in a similar way, in the way Scorpius associated with love.

Scorpius believed that it had to be love. There could be no other explanation. What force more powerful could there be, to change the hearts and minds of two who had been slated as foes?

When Harry had died, the Dark Lord mourned along with them all.

It _had_ to be love.

What else could explain what had come next?

Scorpius paused in his thoughts as he spotted the white marble headstones in the distance. A cloaked figure holding a large bouquet of white lilies was standing there. As Scorpius approached, the figure turned to face him.

“Scorpius.”

Pure instinct fueled the way Scorpius bowed at the waist, an ingrained sign of respect to the man who Scorpius would have called family if not for the firm feeling of distance that held between them.

“None of that, Minister,” said the Dark Lord. “Stand proud before your elders. And remove your Cloak.”

Scorpius removed the Cloak of Invisibility, flushing at the admonishment. There remained few people on this earth who could trigger such a reaction in him. The Dark Lord was one of them. 

Once upon a time, Harry Potter had been another.

The Dark Lord placed his lilies down upon the grave, in front of the smaller stone that rested next to the larger one of James and Lily Potter. 

Harry had wished to be buried here, next to his parents. Reunited at last. The implication of the inscription on the Potters’ joint tombstone was not lost on Scorpius, who could sense the waves of melancholy emanating from the Dark Lord.

“How are you, sir?”

“I am well.” The Dark Lord sounded faintly amused by the pleasantries, and Scorpius wished that Theodore was here to guide him through this conversation. 

Their Lord had always held Theodore in high regard. Scorpius suspected there was another story there, but he had never thought to ask after it. Now he regretted it, however, for here was a secret he would never uncover, a life lesson he might never learn.

Though Scorpius had accumulated a great deal of wisdom over the years, he could not help the inadequacy he felt given the role he now filled.

Some days, Scorpius felt like a child standing in the shadows of giants.

The grave was silent upon receiving the Dark Lord’s offering, as was expected. Scorpius gazed upon the headstone to distract himself, then scolded himself for doing so. This meeting was a rare occasion, and here he was, spoiling it with his own anxieties and preoccupations.

With a wave of his wand, Scorpius summoned the bouquet he’d brought with him. A mix of various flowers: white blooms, irises, and lavender. He placed them down next to the lilies, then took a step back.

To his left, the Dark Lord stood, stone-faced and contemplative.

  
  
  


HARRY JAMES POTTER

BORN 31 JULY 1980

DIED 15 OCTOBER 2305

  
  
  


Once every five years, the Dark Lord would visit this grave and deposit a fresh bouquet of white lilies. 

This would be the Dark Lord’s seventh visit since Harry’s death, and Scorpius had never witnessed any change in the man’s demeanour. Even now, the Dark Lord still mourned. It was heartbreaking to witness such terrible sorrow. 

“Sir?” asked Scorpius. “May I ask a question?”

The Dark Lord shifted his grim gaze, eyes deep red under the cloudy autumn skies, to regard Scorpius with mild scrutiny. 

“Yes, Scorpius?”

Scorpius blew out a soft breath, feeling incredibly out of his depth. “Have you not considered joining him?”

“I think about him every day,” replied the Dark Lord. “And I will never forget him.”

The vague answer made Scorpius uneasy. Had he misstepped in prying for an answer? 

The Dark Lord was likely the oldest living being in all of magical Britain, if not the entire world. Scorpius could not imagine why the Dark Lord would want to remain here while the one he loved was gone.

“Sir?” repeated Scorpius, now uncertain.

The Dark Lord sighed, ran a hand through his hair, glanced back down at the grave with an expression of great sadness. “Please, Scorpius. Call me Tom. I think you have earned the familiarity, have you not?”

Scorpius felt his previous unease return in full force. “Tom,” he said dutifully.

“I have been following your progress in the papers,” the Dark Lord— _Tom_ —continued. “He would have been proud.”

“I could only hope so.” Scorpius tore his eyes away, looking out at the rows of gravestones that stretched on for some distance. “As Minister, I aspire to honour him.” 

Tom said nothing in response, but the silence was now more comfortable, and Scorpius felt confident enough to ask another question.

“So will you ever pass on? Or do you plan to stay forever?” 

Bringing lilies to this place for centuries to come, though Scorpius could not imagine carrying out such a task for eternity. Already, Scorpius was beginning to feel the weariness of his age, and sometime in the next decade, he knew he would begin to look for his own successor.

How Theodore had managed for so long, Scorpius did not know. Theodore had never struck Scorpius as the kind of man who longed for a lengthy life. He had lived mostly in solitude, unmarried with no children, with few friends and fewer family members. 

Towards the end, Scorpius gathered that Theodore had chosen to outlive Harry just long enough to ensure the affairs of the Ministry were in order before passing on. To preserve the legacy that Harry and the Dark Lord had created here.

“I have my task set to me, and I will see it through. When my time comes, I will pass on. You need not worry.”

“What task?” Scorpius asked, for this was the closest he had ever gotten to answers, for an explanation behind the Dark Lord’s abrupt departure from their government.

“Harry’s greatest fear was that he would be forced to witness the deaths of those he loved, over and over again. That the repeated torment of such grief would destroy his humanity.”

There was a pause, and Scorpius realized he was expected to respond.

“I see,” Scorpius said, though really he did not.

Tom chuckled, humourless. “There was once a prophecy,” he said. “I assume Theodore had told you?”

Scorpius nodded.

“ _‘He will live while the Dark Lord reigns, and the Dark Lord will rule as long as he survives,’_ ” Tom quoted softly. “I have fulfilled my end of that bitter bargain, and so I have fulfilled Harry’s dearest wish, his first wish, which was that his death would free innocents from Lord Voldemort's reign.”

“You left for him.”

“Indeed.” Tom inclined his head, then continued, “And so to honour his sacrifice, to honour his _death,_ I will continue to bear witness to the lives of those he loved.”

Once you and these others have departed, then will I find myself able to rest, hoping that I have earned enough forgiveness for my sins.”

Scorpius gaped. “That could take centuries more!” 

There were children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren and onwards, relations to Harry’s original family and friends, all those who Harry had loved without limit. 

While not all of them would choose to consume the Elixir, to extend their lives past the norm, many of them would, surely, and with each generation that passed, the Dark Lord would continue to live on, a phantom presence in the world, watching over them.

“He would not want you to do this,” Scorpius insisted. “He would want you to be at peace.”

Tom smiled wryly. “Harry has always been kinder to me than I deserved. And so have you, Scorpius, though you know not the true extent of the atrocities I have committed.”

Scorpius was aware that the man before him was the most powerful sorcerer on the planet, that to challenge the Dark Lord was a folly on its own, but he could not fathom leaving from this place knowing that Tom Riddle had condemned himself to unknowing years of confinement in this mortal realm.

“You must pass on,” Scorpius said. “This is not right.”

Tom’s expression shifted, the curl of his mouth now patronizing. Scorpius felt like a foolish young man again, to be on the receiving end of such a look.

“It is easier to commit wrongs than rights,” Tom lectured. “To commit a wrong requires less engagement of the heart, mind, and soul than to commit its opposite. The mere concept of righting a wrong implies that justice is owed.”

Justice is not _owed._ If we continually seek reckoning, then we will _always_ be searching for more, do you see?”

Scorpius felt rather like he had just plunged off the edge of a cliff into something dangerous and profound. The words made sense on their own, but the overall meaning was lost on him.

The man once known as the Dark Lord continued, “And so I find myself rather more concerned with what is offered than what is owed. There is power in choice, in giving freely; more power than could ever be taken by force.”

At Scorpius’ continued silence, Tom’s gaze softened. “You are a good man, Scorpius, but you have known little of war. Trust me when I tell you this is more of a blessing than you will ever comprehend. History is written by the victors, and I have altered history enough for several lifetimes.”

Scorpius cleared his throat. “I see. Thank you for the advice.”

“I will see you in five years’ time. I trust you will have begun to groom a successor by then?” 

Tom offered his hand out, his brows raised.

Scorpius shook it, a sense of gloom pressing upon him as he did so. “I would think so.”

“Until then, Scorpius Malfoy.” Tom swept into an informal bow, a gesture Scorpius had not anticipated. “It was a pleasure to see you. Please do take care.”

“You as well.”

Unconsciously, Scorpius cast one final glance to the inscription on James and Lily Potter’s gravestone. To the epitaph that Harry must have chosen for them.

  
  
  


_The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death._

  
  
  


The air stirred around Scorpius, a serene breath of wind that ruffled the heavy cloak hanging over his arm. 

Scorpius knew without looking that Lord Voldemort was gone.

  
  


**END.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok ok ok ok whew. it is done. wow.
> 
> i'd like to preface this final author's note with the fact that this was never the story i wanted to tell (as it's a bit out of my usual element), but rather the story i felt needed to be told. this started as a semi-silly idea and ended up as something much larger.
> 
> from the very beginning, i knew harry was going to die at the end of this story. i knew that this would result in tom/voldemort relinquishing his reign, willingly, for good.
> 
> everything that happened in between was simply the natural development of their relationship. hence my continual expansion of the chapter count as i found myself writing more and more words in this universe. harry and voldemort began on opposite sides, and eventually they ended up somewhere in the middle; it just took many, many words to get them there.
> 
> if you're wondering what happened during that three hundred year gap, i really can't say. i have my ideas, but i wanted to leave this ending ambiguous and up to the reader's interpretation. i may or may not choose to revisit that time period in future one-shots.
> 
> scorpius malfoy's pov is that of an unreliable narrator; his view of harry and tom's relationship is skewed as a result. romance was never a focus for me when writing this story, so you may choose to imagine their relationship progressed however you wish.
> 
> i would greatly appreciate any thoughts you may have, and i am perfectly willing to answer questions about the epilogue (the fates of any characters, for example) in the comments. 
> 
> in case that was not obvious enough: this is me asking very directly for comments please!
> 
> thank you for finishing this journey with me!

**Author's Note:**

> if you haven't read the fics linked below, then you should, because they're basically a crack-parody of this one :)
> 
> find me & my writing updates on tumblr [here](https://duplicitywrites.tumblr.com)
> 
> feel free to join my personal discord server for my writing [here](https://discord.gg/BJRP4A5)!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Condensed Soup on the Rocks](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21905185) by [waitingondaisies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/waitingondaisies/pseuds/waitingondaisies)
  * [There's Nothing Worse than Allergies](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22516498) by [waitingondaisies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/waitingondaisies/pseuds/waitingondaisies)
  * [Stupid Hats](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24068905) by [waitingondaisies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/waitingondaisies/pseuds/waitingondaisies)




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